


The Shadow in the Corner

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Castiel (Supernatural), Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2019, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, Everyone is a Badass in the End, Everything is better steampowered, Lord Dean Winchester, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Men of Letters Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Panty Kink, Period-Typical Homophobia, Photographer Castiel (Supernatural), Strangers to Lovers, The Age of Electricity, idiots to lovers, magic is known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: As a high-ranking member of the Men of Letters, Lord Dean Winchester is overqualified to be investigating strange phenomena at a seaside photography studio. But since the photographer is related to the organization’s most powerful sorcerer, Dean reluctantly boards a steam dirigible to Brighton.Castiel Novak is haunted by a shadow that appears in some of his recent portraits. In each case, the subject died within days of the sitting. Does he have his grandfather’s gift of foresight, or has he somehow caused the deaths?As Dean and Cas search for answers, their investigation draws them together in a most improper way—but it seems the evil presence in the studio may not be their only enemy…





	1. Strange and Brooding Apprehension

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, readers! Here I am, back again with another challenge fic.
> 
> This time the fic comes courtesy of Destiel Harlequin Challenge, which is one of my personal favorite bangs to read, and now write! 
> 
> I was lucky enough that [galaxystiel](https://galaxystiel.tumblr.com/) wanted to produce some art for this prompt, so please feast your eyes on the lovely pieces she created, and go let her know how awesome they are!
> 
> This fic was so much fun to write, and I really hope to dig back into this kind of world again, even more deeply, at some point in the future. It wouldn't be half what it is, though, without the assistance of the wonderful [andimeantittosting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting) throughout. Thank you for always listening to me babble, supporting me throughout, being a fantastic beta, and all around fantastic human being <3
> 
> The chapter titles in this one all come from the poetry of H.P. Lovecraft. The misty, eerie, Lovecraftian style seemed to suit the case that our intrepid Lord Winchester embarks upon so well, I couldn't resist!
> 
> And now! Googles on and top-hats dusted off folks, it's time for the fic!
> 
> Please do leave me a comment or two and let me know what you think, I love to talk with you all!
> 
> \- Mal <3

_They muddy the water, to make it seem deep. – F. Neitzsche_

_ _

The thirty-first day of March, 1885, dawned gray, dreary, and tedious in London. Scudding clouds of ill-omen disrupted the already dull sky, and a swift breeze persuaded Dean Winchester to turn up the collar of his long, black leather jacket. He wasn’t wearing his armor or his formal dress suit; instead he had dragged on the under jacket his plated arm shields usually sat upon, and merely pinned a small silver medallion to his breast pocket. It bore a simple red handprint, his personal sign that he always kept about his body somewhere. He wasn’t properly dressed, but if Elder Michael insisted on calling for him at before seven in the morning, he should consider himself lucky Dean bothered with clothes at all.

Dean held onto the rim of his hat as he hopped off the train, protecting it from the morning bustle and the powerful jets of steam that _whoosh_ed about, powering the carriages. He walked as quickly as he could across Berkeley Square, past the hotel and on down the street to the unassuming frontage of number forty-six. He dodged passers-by with a charming smile; maids carrying bread, an elderly lady walking a yappy dog, a footman with a rather roving eye who might have caused Dean a hearty wink if he hadn’t been in such a hurry. But still, he refused to run. Michael would have Dean in the office on his own terms, or none at all.

The doorbell of the pale stone building was a simple black button, bearing a small symbol of two interlocked triangles, one pointed up, the other down. The Men of Letters were not flashy, not audacious, not loud; they were a subtle knife, a poison letter, a token and a smile. Most people had only the vaguest idea what their job was; those who did usually wished that they did not.

“Dean, come in,” said young Alfie, puffing out his chest as he pulled open the door at Dean’s insistent _bing-bong-_ing on the bell. “You’re here very early this morning.”

Dean grunted. Before coffee, his conversation lacked a certain finesse. “Michael wants me.”

“Right you are, Dean.” Alfie inclined his head, stepping aside.

The staircase up to the Elder’s offices was wide and lined with an emerald carpet. Dean’s heavy boots left dents as they hit every other step, filling the foyer with the rushing sound of his improper coat swishing. He hurried, without much thought to composure, along the halls to the oak double doors that usually kept the leader of the Men of Letters out of sight, unless one was called within.

Which Dean had been, through a rather improper telegram to the housekeeper of the Men of Letters sponsored house where he and his brother lived—at five in the morning, no less.

“Winchester,” Michael greeted him flatly, without rising from behind the leather-topped oak desk. “You’re late.”

_Son of a bitch, _Dean thought through his forced smile. “Yes. Well. It’s early.”

“Some of us have been up for several hours already,” Michael pointed out coolly, rotating slowly in his spinning desk chair until he faced Dean fully. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest, only the barest raise of an eyebrow changing his expression.

“And some of us,” Dean returned pointedly, “were up past midnight, working the remaining ends of the Cole case. Out on the streets, working up a sweat.”

The two men eyed each other a moment more, before Michael gave Dean a reluctant dip of his head.

“I must admit, Winchester, you did a fine job on the Cole case.”

_And on the previous one, not that you’d mention that, _Dean thought hotly. 

“In fact,” Michael continued, leaning forward to balance his elbows on the thick wooden desk edge, “it was your excellence in investigating where Cole’s powers came from that brought you to mind for this next task.”

“Another case?” Dean asked, curious despite himself. “If I may, sir, I still have the paperwork to complete for Cole, and I have yet to find the second accomplice—”

Michael interrupted him with a dismissive wave. “We’ll find someone else to clean up. This case is… very particular. It requires a special level of discretion, to the point that I would request you work it alone.”

Dean eyed Michael levelly. Waiting. Knowing, but waiting.

After a fat, loaded breath of time, Michael gave a small eye roll. “Fine, Dean. I will speak plainly. This case will not be ‘on the books’, as it were. This will be a private investigation, and your subtlety in the matter will be highly rewarded.”

“Oh, really, sir.” Dean leaned back in the plush chair that faced the desk, clasping his hands across his chest. He took a moment to perfect his cocky smile, before kicking his boots up onto the edge of the desk—a challenge, and a blatant one. “Sounds like the ball is in my court then, Michael. Don’t you think?”

Michael failed to entirely disguise his horror at Dean’s impropriety, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he let out a long sigh, regarding the desk edge for a long moment before he returned his eyes to Dean.

“You recognize that you have me at a disadvantage, here. This matter is personal. Nonetheless, I shall ensure that you are rewarded well. Whatever you wish.”

“You know what I want.”

Michael sighed. “Yes, Dean. I know what you want. But the fact remains that second sons have never been Lettersman material, you know that—”

“If my brother,” Dean said lowly, “wishes to gain the same honors as I do, rather than being relegated to your paper pusher, then you will allow him. Or you can take your private cases and shove them—”

“Dean Winchester!” Michael spluttered, one fist slamming down onto the desk. “Just because you have the upper hand here, you will not forget who you are talking to, you hear?”

The two headstrong men glared it out for a tense minute before Dean allowed himself to nod.

“Better,” said Michael. “If you wish for Sam to be allowed to sit the aptitude tests, then I will put my name forward. Gabriel has, of course, been willing to speak for him for a long time—with the two of us on side, we should be able to outvote Raphael.”

The fact that there were now only three council Elders, rather than four, meaning that such a coup vote was now possible, rested unspoken in the air. The fourth member, Lucien, had been almost universally disliked by all except his own brothers, but his place on the council was ensured by blood, rather than popularity. That was, until one of Dean’s most recent cases had implicated Lucien in some extremely shady dealings.

Lucien was now off in the country, wed to a good woman from a fine family up north, his family said. Dean had a suspicion that was just a glossy veneer for the truth: that he was likely shut away by Michael and Raphael, for ruining their good name. Caged, like a bad dog.

“What’s the case?” Dean asked. He refused to lower his feet, but he did at least try to sound civil.

Michael let out a long, low sigh. “As indicated, I expect not a word of this to leave my office.”

“Of course,” Dean said.

_Fat chance_, Dean thought.

Michael stood up from his chair, moving around the desk and over to the rug in front of the stone fireplace. The mantle was decorated with the De Angelis family crest and the rug was finest Oriental; Dean thought that Michael best hope he didn’t wear it out from the speed at which he paced back and forth on it as he spoke.

“The case in question is down in Brighton. It has been brought to my attention that a celebrated artist and photographer by the name of Castiel Novak has been experiencing… strange things, in his studio.”

“Our kind of strange things, I assume,” Dean prompted.

“Indeed. Recently, a shadow has appeared in some of his photographs—”

“Ahh, ghost case?” Dean interrupted. This seemed, if anything, far beneath his talents. A tiny, suspicious voice at the back of his mind told him that this was less about rewarding him for his merits and more about punishing him for implicating Lucien.

“If you will let me _finish_,” Michael griped. “No. The shadow is merely a darkish-gray blur, in the corner of the shots. A local agent took some EMF readings with the very latest electro-spectrometer technology, but the studio seems clear. However, in every instance, the subject of the photograph has died within forty-eight hours of the photographs being developed.”

That got Dean’s interest. “How many deaths?”

“Six, so far, by the time the pattern was noted and proved. The photographer is now afraid to work.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean said. “So, what makes this one so special? Sounds exactly like our kind of thing, but one of the juniors could grab it, easily.”

“Yes, it is well within our wheelhouse, particularly yours, if a little basic. But in this case, the victim, or suspect—whichever he turns out to be—is my brother.”

Dean felt his brow creasing rudely, but he didn’t much care. He pushed up out of his seat, finally settling his boots back on the floor. “Your brother? But your brothers are all well known in society—why wouldn’t he have a seat on the council?”

“You may have noticed the difference in our surnames.”

Oh… _ooooh._

Dean smirked. Well, well. Who’d have thought. 

“Not only that,” Michael said, even more cautiously. “But Castiel is… well. I will be forthright, as you will meet him soon enough. Castiel is a deviant, by any standards.”

“A… deviant.” A chill ran through Dean. 

“He seeks company that should not be approved of, and his proclivities are… well. I would not wish to horrify you, Winchester. I seek only to warn you.” 

And there it was.

Good Queen Victoria had repealed decency laws only the year before, when it had finally come out about the many female lovers she had tried to suppress. Her detractors in parliament had cried foul, so in a style befitting the woman some called _Little Victory_, she had simply leveraged her supporters to change the rules. Dean himself had never given much thought to the direction of Her Royal Highness’s nethers—he’d been far too busy quelling the whispers of her full moon activities, for one thing.

A change of law, however, didn’t automatically grant a change of attitudes for all. While some were now happy to step out, others were still just as happy to speak ill of it. As Michael clearly was.

Dean filed this information away for later—for his own benefit, more than anything, as his tastes could only be described as wild, varied, and fleeting. His reputation preceded him on such matters, but lucky for him, Michael rarely left his desk and was hardly popular enough to be included in the Chapterhouse banter.

“I will take that under advisement, sir,” Dean answered carefully.

Michael nodded briskly. Luckily for Dean, he didn’t seem to have any wish to linger on the topic. “If you will accept the case, I have you scheduled on a dirigible later today.”

“It can’t wait for the train?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Do you want more people to drop dead, or my brother to put proof to the starving artist stereotype in the meantime?”

“No, sir.” Dean sighed. “Dirigible it is.”

“Glad to hear it,” Michael said, heading back to his seat, pacing done.

Dean wondered how many hours he had left to get himself well and truly drunk before he had to fly. “What time will the craft leave the station?

“Exactly four o’clock. And Dean…”

“Yessir?”

“You will be _sober_, for the flight, like a good Lettersman should, hmm?”

“Of course,” Dean said, through gritted teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else, sir.”

_ _

The Men of Letters Library was a research institute to rival the British Library itself, but many fewer people knew of its existence. The building was imposing and fine but was assumed by the populace to be a good house in the name of Ms. Sonia Greene, occupying a wide stretch of the north end of Berkeley Square. Ms. Green was, in fact, resident at the address—but she was the house matron for the many researchers who lived in the halls at the back. The main attraction of 106 Berkeley was the library itself.

Dean bounded up the front steps more out of habit than joviality—like it or not, he’d be on that hideous flying contraption, entirely sober, within the hour. But first, he had to call on his younger brother. 

“Sammy!” Dean called, smacking the counter enthusiastically. He began to peel off his right glove in expectation of shaking his brother’s hand, scrunching up the leather in his left hand carelessly.

His brother appeared from the room behind the guest desk, looking displeased. “Dean, once again—Sammy is a chubby five-year-old, and this is my place of employment, so if you don’t mind—”

“Sam, _Samuel_,” Dean corrected, rolling his eyes. “I have important news. Come on, out with you. You’ll have to walk me to the station.”

“Sam is fine,” the younger man grumbled. “And I can’t just leave, you know that. I have important—”

“Ms. Mills!” Dean called again, causing the short-haired, grinning woman to stick her head out of the same door through which Sam had emerged. “I need to steal young Sam for a bit. Do you mind terribly?”

“Of course not, Dean!” the Letterswoman assigned to the Research Institute grinned. 

Sam turned, looking exasperated, and frowned at her.

She shrugged, smirking. “We don’t argue with the Red Hand around here, Sam. Go. If it’s Letters business, it’s still part of your job.”

Dean tugged the front of his hat gratefully. “Right you are, Ms. Mills. Letters business.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he came around the edge of the desk, reaching to shake Dean’s hand firmly before he pulled him quickly in to slap at his shoulder. “I wish they wouldn’t call you that.”

“Red Hand?” Dean shrugged. “I like it.”

“It’s morbid.”

“Some of the other agents have much worse nicknames, you know. As you’ll find out, when you join them,” Dean said with a grin.

“Like that’ll ever happen,” Sam grumbled as he grabbed his hat from the rack near the door. 

“Oh, it might,” Dean said with a smirk as they strolled back out into the weak attempt at spring sunshine that London was providing them. 

Sam raised an eyebrow curiously but said nothing as they moved down the steps. Almost everyone else on the stairs inclined their head to Sam as they passed, and Dean’s chest warmed to see it. Dean was known as the hot-headed but charming Winchester, the one who always got his way, popular with ladies and gents alike but only ever for a night. His younger brother, on the other hand, seemed to be universally adored. Incredibly intelligent, he’d earned a place at the Institute despite being a second son. Dean was under no illusion that Sam’s brains were why women and men both flocked to him though. He was kind, and softly-spoken, and the marriageable kind of handsome that society seemed to favor. Taller than Dean, Sam had beautiful, flowing hair that curled past his ears, broad shoulders, and hazel puppy eyes which ensured that Dean wasn’t the only Winchester who got what he wanted. Add in Sam’s lithe, masculine form and smiling demeanor, and it was no wonder that his options for suitors were numerous.

Where there could have been jealousy or rivalry, Dean felt only pride. They were the only two Winchesters left, his brother and he, and Dean had always fallen into the caretaker role. Despite Sam being only four years younger, Dean had been in charge of their household since the moment he came of age, their drunken father being more hindrance than help in almost any instance. His death had changed little in the family dynamic, other than Dean not having to beg as many debtors for merciful terms. 

“So,” Sam asked quietly as they walked abreast down the pavement, “what’s this about?”

Dean allowed a cocky grin to curl his lip, because why not? “Am I not allowed to just visit my little pipsqueak of a brother?”

Sam looked very pointedly downwards at Dean. “Of course, but you don’t. You know full-well you’d have seen me at home this evening, so this was urgent.”

“Ahh, so you have done something with your brain other than feed your hair follicles.”

Sam had an impressive array of bitchfaces, and on the sliding scale of them all, the one he pulled out was relatively mild. “Alright, out with it, Dean.”

“I may—if the situation turns in our favor—have persuaded Elder Michael to speak up for you beside Gabriel, if a vote should be called on your application.”

Sam gave Dean a curious side glance, before quickly tugging his elbow. “You’re going the wrong way for the train station, brother.”

“Sadly, I am going exactly the right way,” Dean replied dryly, tugging Sam back. “I have to report to the air station, rather than the train station.”

“Oh, my.” Sam blinked. “Who did you upset?”

“I think our fearless leader still has it in for me, for turning Lucien in,” Dean grumbled. “Though he seems to be giving me a chance to make it up to him.”

“You’re going to get into trouble, calling him that,” Sam said, dodging around a hurrying chimney sweep on the street. 

“Well what else am I supposed to call him, when he never comes out from behind his desk?” asked Dean, turning his head to eye the chimney sweep’s arse with interest. 

Sam nudged Dean sharply with his elbow. “Eyes up here, Red Hand.”

“Wouldn’t mind leaving a red handprint on that one.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled hard. “Good lord, why me?”

Dean reluctantly dragged his eyes back to Sam as they moved to cross the road, heading up Davies Street so that they could turn onto Bourdon Street, where the air station was. “Because you cause more averted eyes than even I do, brother. Now. Did you hear me about Michael?”

“Yes, Dean. I’m not deaf. Do you really believe Gabriel would speak up with him?”

Dean gave a little snort. “Stop being obtuse. You know the youngest De Angelis would crawl across broken glass with his fly unbuttoned if you so much as looked in his direction.”

Sam sniffed haughtily. “Rumors, Dean. Don’t be uncouth.” 

With a pointed look, Dean left it at that, and instead began to relay the details of the case to Sam. Because ‘under the table’ or not, Dean and Sam shared everything.

“So, this ‘deviant’ artist is some sort of secret De Angelis?” Sam questioned as they turned the corner to Bourdon Street, his eyes wide with scandal. 

“I suppose so,” Dean said, frowning, before allowing his sarcasm to leak through. “Though I doubt he’s half as deviant as Michael makes him out to be. Knowing Michael, poor Mister Novak was probably exiled to Brighton for daring to kiss a boy, or something heinous like that.”

Sam gave a little hum of agreement. “So, what are your thoughts on the case itself?”

“More information required,” Dean responded thoughtfully. “I want to at least see the photographs and the studio before I start jumping to any conclusions. Interesting that Michael claims they’ve already ruled out a ghost, though.”

“Hmm, yes,” Sam agreed. “Well, even if knowledge of this case is supposed to be entirely at Michael’s discretion, I can’t see why a little research could hurt. I’ll browse a little on my downtime, and I can turn more focus to it if you pass on your findings.”

“Knew I could count on you, Sammy,” Dean said with a fond, crooked grin.

“Sam,” Sam corrected with a sigh.

“As you say,” Dean said with a smirk that said he had no intention of stopping.

They came to a halt in front of a busy sandstone building, tall arches leading back from the street to a set-up not unlike that of a train-station, but without the rails. Instead, commuters boarded a carriage that was more like a fine ship than a train. Long ropes strained up overhead, connecting it to a gas-filled balloon that skilled captains could guide through the air with astonishing grace and accuracy. Flying by dirigible was four times as fast as traveling by train, and so Elder Michael had been correct in his assertion that it would allow Dean to get cracking on the case much quicker.

Even so, Dean’s stomach tied in knots. Men, he asserted, were meant to be ground dwelling. Had they been made for the skies, then they’d have evolved with wings. He’d fight anyone who tried to get him onto a dirigible without good reason—had, in fact, on more than one occasion. He’d improved, though, and these days he would sit at his table and read the newspaper, and resolutely ignore the window in relative calm. With the judicious application of good bourbon, anyway.

Michael had said sober, but what Michael didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

“What are your arrangements for when you arrive in Brighton?” Sam questioned at Dean’s side as he moved up to the ticket window.

“We have a local agent down there who is to assist me,” Dean responded, digging into his vest pocket for his watch. “A Ms. Charlene Bradbury, I believe. Michael has arranged for her to pick me up at the station.”

“Ahh. I trust when the sorcerer relayed the papers to Ms. Bradbury over the steam facsimile, he instructed her to watch for the man in the top hat who reeks of the airline’s best whiskey.”

Offering his pocket watch, still on its chain, to the ticket seller in the booth, Dean paused their conversation to smile warmly and wink at her as she tapped the device to the magical pad at her desk. The pocket watch glowed softly blue. With a nod, she passed it back to him through the customer window, and Dean moved on toward the platform, with Sam in tow.

“I had to promise Michael I’d be sober. I’m taking that to mean I can’t arrive _drunk_, however, not that I can’t drink at all. Otherwise there’s no way he is getting me on that contraption.”

Sam rolled his eyes, moving out of habit to stand in front of Dean and straighten his hat and tie, before dusting off the shoulders of his traveling coat. “Did the porter from Berkeley Square already send your bags across?”

“Yes, young Alfie should have them already waiting for me in my seat,” Dean said, glaring at Sam’s hands for a moment before slapping them aside. “Stop it. You’re my brother, not my valet.”

“You don’t have a valet, and you’re a mess,” Sam retorted. “Now get going. Call me when you get there. I’ll assist however I can.”

Dean would be a liar if he said that his chest wasn’t filled with a strange and brooding apprehension; not just regarding his impending flight, but about this case as a whole. Knowing that his brother, the Men of Letters’ best researcher, with every accolade to his name, had his back—it was a comfort, at least.

Dean opened the carriage door and swung himself within. “Of course, Sammy. I’ll keep you up to date with every aspect of the case.”

“And Dean?” Sam shouted over the loud blast of the dirigible horn from overhead. 

“What?” Dean yelled, his head out of the glass window that made up the top part of the door.

“Stay out of trouble, Red Hand!”

__

For the most part Dean’s journey to Brighton was uneventful. He carefully measured his bourbon, landing smelling slightly squiffy but perfectly able to put one foot in front of the other. It was mid-afternoon by the time he stepped out onto the platform, wheeling his traveling trunk behind him. One or two folks eyed him curiously as he passed, but Dean held his head high; he had changed out of his traveling jacket in favor of his formal Men of Letters attire during his journey from London, so that he could officially greet the area agent, Ms. Bradbury. He hoped that she was a good sort; the last case he’d been on in the south of the country had him reporting to a surly older gent named Frank, who was delightfully kooky but rather hard to keep up with in any serious capacity—he believed every single case was a conspiracy, which had made it notably harder for Dean to solve his simple poltergeist problem. 

People often assumed that Dean had no love of dressing up in his formal attire, but they were quite wrong. It wasn’t practical for every day, of course, but Dean actually loved the drama of it. It was intimidating to behold—a sweeping, black leather short cape that hit just above his hips coming over one shoulder, teamed with the metal arm guards that graced his other side. The shoulder plate of the guards was decorated with his personal insignia, the Red Hand. It looked like a handprint of blood, which only added to his overall daunting appearance. A top hat, an iron cane with a silver tip—for safety, of course—and an assortment of fully-loaded weapon belts had Dean looking like he was spoiling for a duel, and many shied away from him. Not that he minded. It was easier to command respect when you looked like it might be needed. 

“Agent Winchester!” a voice called across the station.

Dean turned to see a small, redheaded woman waving from the barrier. She was dressed somewhat similarly to he; a black, hoop-skirted dress with an impressive bustle, and a short cape that graced one shoulder like his own. She carried her own cane, and clipped to her shoulder guard (a simple black leather, not like Dean’s heavy iron) was a symbol of an emerald green, six pointed star. It wasn’t an insignia Dean was familiar with, but his eyes were called from it by the realization that below it, she also wore a black mourning band around her arm guard.

Interesting. Perhaps she knew one of the victims, or the photographer in question? Dean would find a polite way to ask, shortly.

“Agent Bradbury,” he called, striding across the platform and meeting her with a deep bow. 

“Welcome to Brighton, Sir,” she said with a smile. “On behalf of the South England branch of the Letters, I hope you find your stay safe and pleasant—and now that is out of the way, please, call me Charlie.”

He grinned, liking her already. “Excellent—I’m Dean.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow, turning to the side so that he could bypass the barrier and join her on the pavement beyond the station. “So, you don’t demand that us common folk call you ‘Red Hand’, then?”

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“Tales tell that you are ferocious!” Her tone carried an amused ribbing that only caused Dean to relax further.

“Only when I need to be, I assure you. And against those who are just a little too stuffy.” Dean held out his elbow to her. A smaller woman, dressed in porter’s gear, stepped away from Charlie’s side and took his traveling case with a wordless smile. 

Charlie took his elbow with a little twinkle in her eye. “Sounds as if we’ll get on just fine, Dean; I care nothing for stuffy. This isn’t London, and I’m no wilting maid.”

A gentle breeze carried the smell of the sea across the busy road outside of the air station, as Dean, Charlie, and the porter began to head uphill from the tidy brick building that housed the dirigible drop-off. 

“If you prefer to have things straight, Charlie,” Dean said once the pavement cleared and they had no immediate neighbors, “I would like to ask what you think of this case and its players.”

Charlie’s soft green eyes moved to Dean, darting to the side, but her face stayed ahead, and she continued calmly strolling up the street. “You ask for my professional opinion, or my personal opinion?”

“I’m immediately curious that they may not be the same, so have at both, if you please.”

“Professionally,” Charlie began, “I can tell you that I have personally swept the entirely of Mister Novak’s photography studio for EMF, hex bags, curse items, or any suspicious or otherworldly items. I found nothing. Castiel himself is a mess, distraught that he may unwittingly have caused these deaths, but he cannot be entirely discounted as a suspect in them yet. He is the only link that has so far been discovered between any of the victims.”

“And personally?”

“Personally, well.” Charlie’s voice softened, and she looked once more to Dean before allowing her eyes to rest on the sea, waiting for a streetcar to move on so that they could cross the street. “Personally, I believe that Castiel is innocent, though he may well be the connection here. This may perhaps be something that was done to him, rather than by him.”

“What makes you say that?”

Charlie opened her mouth and closed it again as they crossed over the street. Her teeth worried at her lip.

“Speak plainly please, Charlie,” Dean encouraged softly. “What good will it do to hold secrets, if those secrets lead me to the wrong conclusion, or slow me so that more die?”

“Castiel is a dear friend, Dean, to me and to many others. He is well liked, in these parts. But his family… they are exceedingly powerful sorcerers, every last one. Castiel is not. He is here, in Brighton, because he was shunned by his family, but rumor has it…” 

Charlie’s eyes flickered subtly to Dean once more. 

“…well, rumor has it that his family tree has been forcibly pruned, of late.”

“You refer to Lucien,” Dean said, flatly. 

“Yes. You had a hand in that, correct?”

“A Red Hand, one could say,” Dean smirked.

“Well then you know that Lucien was likely not, as they have said, married off into even more money than they already possess. You know he was exiled.”

Dean nodded. “I suspected as much, given my damning evidence of his indiscretions. The matter was handled internally by Michael and Raphael, though. I don’t truly know what happened, I only suspect.”

“Well, perhaps you also know that Charles De Angelis’s will speaks of splitting his fortune between the sons, giving a portion to however many of them follow his footsteps and hold positions in the Men of Letters.”

“Interesting,” Dean murmured. That was genuinely news to him. 

“With Lucien out, that means greater riches for Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. Now that Luci has had his powers restricted, his role should—in theory—be handed to another blood sorcerer.”

“But…” Dean was slowly following. “No one knows about Castiel. Or at least I didn’t, until this morning. From the surname, I assumed that his _mother _was the one who—”

“Not so. Castiel is a De Angelis by blood, and Charles granted him the right to the name, whatever his papers may say. If it wasn’t for Naomi, he’d have been raised at Angelis Hall. The Novak name came along with the other excuses to send him to Brighton,” Charlie explained, her voice tight and angry.

“So, you are saying,” Dean clarified, “that Castiel should be next in line to take Lucien’s seat. It doesn’t have to remain empty, as it does now. But the three remaining brothers wish to keep it empty, so that they have a higher share in Charles’s wealth.”

“Yes.” Charlie turned to Dean, grasping his hands closely. “I jumped at the chance to be honest with you, Dean, when I heard you had been assigned to this case. I don’t know why Michael sent you—he must have his own reasons—but if I can convince you of my words, then I must beg you to help me prove them.”

Dean frowned, the two of them frozen on the pavement, their porter looking innocently at the sky. “I was called in merely to investigate the supernatural—”

“The completely random, untraceable supernatural event which has suddenly focused on Castiel since his brothers realized he may be a threat to them,” Charlie interrupted, darkly.

Silence hung between them for a moment.

“So, you wish for me to save your friend,” Dean said softly. “Not just from the dashes to his reputation that this mystery has caused, but from what you believe to be an attempt to permanently discredit him and make him unfit for the De Angelis name.”

“Or worse,” Charlie bit out. “This creature isn’t playing around; six have died already.”

“You’re asking me to investigate our own—”

“No,” Charlie butted in again, firmer. “I am merely asking you to investigate the case, Dean. But with your eyes wide open.”

Watching her pale, desperate face, her emotions fully revealed to him now, Dean couldn’t help but nod slowly. “Very well, Charlie. Eyes open. I will do my best to protect Castiel, no matter what—or who—his adversary turns out to be.”

Charlie seemed immensely relieved, and Dean was content to extend his elbow back to her, so that they could continue progressing along the street. Though he couldn’t help but turn her words over in his mind.

Something didn’t quite add up. If the De Angelis brothers wanted Castiel out of the way, then why would they send their best agent—and modesty be damned, Dean believed he was their best agent—to investigate their own scheme?

He mused on it for a moment as they travelled along the seafront, heading uphill past colorful terraced homes and hotels. Brighton was a popular destination for those who had been advised to take in the sea air for their health, and so neat bed and breakfasts abounded. Screeching seabirds yelled and shared the afternoons’ gossip overhead, and the wheels of Dean’s trunk rumbled pleasantly along the paving slabs behind them. Dean’s attention was drawn to the sound, and he gave the slim, blonde woman pulling his trunk a smile.

Turning back to Charlie, he inclined his head curiously toward the porter. 

“If I may say so, Charlie, you speak very freely in front of your porter.”

Charlie looked askance at him, holding her eyes on his face for a moment. “Indeed, I do. Her name is Jo, and she has been with me—with our Chapter—for several years now.”

If there was a layer of meaning there that Dean was meant to catch, he kept his lips tight about it and merely smiled. 

Within minutes, they came to a halt outside a tall, white-stone building bearing the Men of Letters’ identifying symbol carved into a marble lintel above the door—interlocked triangles, one pointed up, the other down.

“A room has been prepared for you at the Chapterhouse,” Charlie said, hitching her skirt as she climbed the stone steps to the front door. “If you wish, we can have Jo take your things up for you as soon as you’re signed in and we can make our way over to the Novak Studio?”

“Sounds excellent,” Dean said, dipping his hat. “I’m keen to meet this man and get started on his case.”


	2. Of Electricity and Psychology

_Every age thinks it’s the modern age, but this one really is. Electricity is going to change everything. Everything! – T. Stoppard_

The afternoon had worn thin and evening light was beginning to embrace the rattling private streetcar that Dean and Charlie occupied by the time they pulled up outside the Novak Studio.

“Thank you, Ed. You can wait here for now, if you wish, unless the Chapter calls you to return.”

“Yes ma’am,” the small man who’d driven them over from the Chapterhouse on Manchester Street replied, dipping his bowler hat respectfully. 

Dirigibles may have given Dean the heebie-jeebies, but he loved to ride in a streetcar—the best of all the modern inventions, he often told his brother. Things as they were, Dean sat on his money like a hoarding dragon, years of poverty having left an indelible mark. But once he retired, he always said to Sam, a glorious black motorized car would be his, to wind up each day and take out purely for the pleasure of the drive.

Dean offered his hand to Charlie, helping her out onto a quiet section of seafront that was not far from the construction site of the famed Brighton pier, where Castiel Novak had set up his photography studio. The building was very large and clearly older; a black and white Tudor-style affair with an upper floor that extended out over the pavement, and an impressively huge front door that was propped open with a heavy rock, a metal post set within it bearing a hastily calligraphied sign that said, “Welcome to the Studio. Photographer is currently not accepting clients. Gallery open.” 

“You mentioned that you and Mister Novak are friends, Charlie—so you have been to the studio before?” Dean asked, gesturing to the sign as they stood on the pavement. “Is that the usual state of affairs?”

“No, it isn’t, sir,” Charlie shook her head. “Castiel works every day of the year—both from passion and to support himself without his family’s money. So that is greatly unusual.”

Dean nodded, acknowledging her response while he idly corrected her, “Please, don’t ‘Sir’ me. If you get to be Charlie, I get to be Dean. My lordship is gifted, not inherited, and I find I’m still not quite used to hearing it.”

Charlie gave him a small smile as they walked toward the door. “Very well, Dean. Though in front of my superiors and other such important folk, you’ll have to excuse me. I’d rather not get rapped for forgetting my tongue when that isn’t the case.”

“Fair enough, Charlie. You can call me whatever you wish at introductions, but please, with the two of us, there is no Lord Winchester here. Just Dean, the son of a Lettersman, no more than you.”

Stepping into the muted light within the studio, Charlie led them along the hallway to a small booth at the end. A young blonde woman sat behind it, organizing some salted-paper print postcards of what Dean had to assume was Castiel’s work.

“Miss Claire,” Charlie greeted her warmly. “Please would you tell Mrs. Harvelle to summon Castiel down from his rooms. I have the agent from London here with me.”

“Ms. Charlie." The girl hopped off her stool, bobbed and grinned. “I’ll send word up now. I’m sure he’ll be a moment, so go on through. You know you don’t need to pay here.”

The young girl scurried off, and Charlie turned back to Dean. “We can take in Castiel’s gallery as we wait,” she suggested.

Dean nodded—the young clerk had said they had no need to pay, but nonetheless he tucked his fingers into his pocket, drawing out a shiny shilling and leaving it atop the ledger that rested on the desk. He extended his elbow politely, and Charlie took it and led the way.

The first room was shrouded in muted light, so as to protect the beautiful art that was displayed all around. Dean was by no means an expert in the arts, his appreciation far less refined than some, but he had no doubts about Castiel Novak’s talents as they moved through the gallery.

The prints, lithographs, and huge salt-paper scenes that covered the walls were breathtaking. Somehow Castiel had a way of bringing his subjects to life in his pictures; their eyes followed Dean, speaking to him, telling far more of their emotion and story than he should know from one simple photograph.

“Castiel is very good,” Dean murmured to Charlie.

“Castiel is an artist,” she returned. “He takes sitting portraits for money, but the scenes he designs himself, his own private projects… they are unbelievable.”

“He has projects he doesn’t share here?” Dean asked, his eyes enraptured by a photograph of a young man boxing, looking like he was about to leap out and cuff Dean’s ear.

Charlie gave a secret smile, her eyes drifting sideward. “That is his to tell or not. I’m merely espousing his skills.”

“Of course.”

They wandered for a few more minutes through several rooms of treasures, all people in various poses and costumes, so full of character Dean felt his heart tug. Various other patrons of the arts drifted and murmured their way around the room and Dean found himself hoping that they appreciated the beauty of what they saw as much as he did.

A throat cleared behind them.

Dean turned and found himself in the grip of a sudden occlusion, the oxygen that should be reaching his brain apparently entirely elsewhere. Eyes bluer than the seafront beyond the door pinned and held him, and if Dean hadn’t been in public view he’d have reached out to pull them closer right then. Catching himself suddenly in embarrassment, he offered a shaky smile to cover his ridiculous response to the man before him.

“Castiel!” Charlie smiled widely, dipping a small curtsey. “Thank you so much for coming down. Please may I have the pleasure of introducing a fellow Lettersman, Lord Winchester.”

The tall man—almost the same height as Dean himself—with a shock of untamed, dark hair didn’t look at her, his oceanic gaze resting solely on Dean, offering to softly drown him. For a moment they seemed caught, looking at each other, an instant _something _in the air that Dean couldn’t quite place. Breaking their moment after a few long seconds, Castiel inclined his head with a small smile.

“Novak,” Dean managed, stepping forward to offer his hand.

“Castiel, please, sir,” he said, reaching to shake it. His voice knocked Dean amiss yet again; deep enough to roll his stomach and set his heart beating stupidly. 

“Dean, then. It’s only fair.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but didn’t offer a response. If Dean thought that his hand lingered a little too long in greeting, he wasn’t about to mention it. 

“Dean is one of our best and most famous agents,” Charlie flattered Dean with a smile. 

“Is that so?” Castiel said, his smile turning curious. “Famous, you say—would I have heard of him?”

“You may have heard of the Red Hand, perhaps,” Charlie said with a small smirk.

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Who hasn’t heard of the Red Hand? You saved Queen Victoria, did you not?” he asked Dean.

With a dismissive shrug, Dean played it down as best he could. “The Men of Letters are the country’s first and last line of supernatural defense. I merely did my job.”

“And you were honored for it,” Castiel said, understanding. “So, you are a new Lord, then, and not quite used to the title.” There was a small smirk that came more from his eyes than his mouth, and Dean could barely tear his gaze from it.

“Indeed.” Dean turned to Charlie, with some effort, to see her looking subtly back and forth between himself and Castiel, her expression a mystery. 

She stopped as soon as he noticed her and jumped in to direct them to the purpose of their conversation. “Dean has been asked to take over the investigation into the happenings in the studio,” she said softly, keeping her words from the other patrons. “I will be here to assist if he needs it, but I urge you to work with Dean as closely as you can, Castiel. His reputation precedes him, and I know you’re keen to move past this.”

Castiel nodded solemnly, before lifting his eyes to move around the room and take in the few other guests that he had. “It’s late in the day; the gallery will be closing soon. If you can give me time to lock up and dismiss Miss Claire, I will make myself available to answer any questions.”

Dean smiled gratefully. “That would be appreciated. I would like to see the photographs, too, if they are in your possession.”

“Of course. They are in my own rooms, above—if you wish, Charlie can escort you up and my housekeeper will attend to you until I’m done here.”

There were nods all around, and Charlie reached out, softly squeezing Castiel’s wrist—a subtle motion, familiar and friendly, but Dean didn’t miss it. He rarely missed anything. 

“I’ll take Dean up to the parlor and ask Mrs. Harvelle to prepare some tea, Cas,” she said lowly.

“Thank you, Charlie,” he whispered his response, before turning to smile his small, radiant smile at Dean. “I am honored that you would come to help me, Dean. I do hope that you will let me receive you as a friend before we are done.”

It was bold, but not unwelcome, and Dean couldn’t help but smile back. “A man always needs more friends, Castiel. I hope we can solve this case as such.”

With a nod much less solemn than his previous, Castiel stepped away and headed toward Miss Claire’s booth at the front of the gallery.

The parlor of Castiel’s home, a set of spacious apartments above the gallery, was warm and inviting. A small fire burned in the hearth to combat the early evening chill that had begun to drift across from the sea, complementing the warm reds and oak panels that decorated the room. Mrs. Harvelle, a fierce-looking woman with kindly eyes, turned out some excellent apple scones, and Dean and Charlie waited patiently with tea while Castiel saw to his business. They passed the time talking of Lettersman business and speaking of the current plays and books they both enjoyed; it seemed to Dean that Charlie could become a dear friend, if only he was to be in Brighton longer.

They hadn’t waited long before the parlor door softly clicked, admitting Castiel.

“Dean, Charlie,” he said with a little bow, shutting it behind him.

The housekeeper gave him a surprisingly judgmental look. “Mind your tongue, Castiel, and remember your manners. Lord Winchester and Ms. Bradbury have a teacup ready for you, and Ms. Bradbury has kindly said she will pour so that I can return to dinner preparation. Hopefully being in the tea will keep you out of other cups tonight.”

Dean couldn’t help but raise his eyebrow slightly; such an outspoken housekeeper would be swiftly reprimanded in London. Dean liked her already.

Castiel seemed nonplussed, waving her away. “Away with you, Ellen. I shan’t drown myself in bourbon with good company. Only wet my toes.”

Mrs. Harvelle threw Castiel a look that indicated she didn’t quite believe him, but she offered nothing beyond a polite curtsey to them all before departing.

Charlie rose, and to Dean’s total surprise, moved to embrace Castiel as he came across the room.

Dean blinked. Perhaps he had misunderstood the situation; were the two of them—

Something of Dean’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Castiel gave a low chuckle as he let go of her and seated himself opposite Dean. “Our ways are shocking you, Lord Winchester.”

“Please, again, just Dean is fine.”

Charlie had a grin on her face as she arranged her skirts, sitting back down between them. “Dean, as we now sit in a much more private parlor, allow me to be blunt; Castiel here is a fine man, extremely easy on the eyes, I am sure, but much like a brother to me these past ten years. And even if that were not so, neither of us quite lean towards the other.”

Dean squinted curiously, but it was Castiel that gave out a snort.

“You say you’ll be blunt, then still speak in riddles. Charlie prefers the company of other ladies, Dean. I apologize if that offends you, but in my home it’s not something to be hidden.”

_Oh… oh. Of course. The porter…_

“Jo, from the Chapterhouse?” Dean asked Charlie, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what that was about?”

Charlie nodded, her expression a little more closed off as she measured Dean’s response. “We don’t hide as we did, with the new laws, but still I would appreciate your discretion.”

Dean could feel Castiel watching him intently, cataloguing his every move and judging his response, just as Charlie had done. Dean was almost afraid to look back at him, afraid to say the wrong thing, show too much. So instead he cleared his throat and looked down at his empty teacup, still in hand, unsure what omen the tea leaves clinging to the bottom were trying to tell him of.

“Well,” Dean said, quietly, “you have my discretion, of course, as you request it. The judgement you fear is not from the likes of me. The law says you may live as you will, and you should.”

“Thank you,” she responded. “I think a lot of our time on the case will be easier if we don’t constantly have to dance around one another. Cas and I are very familiar, and act as such, and I wish only to extend to you the invitation to do the same, Dean.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dean said, smiling. He wondered if she had heard rumors of the Red Hand’s many conquests, as well as his success stories. Dean didn’t hide who he was now that he no longer had to, but he also didn’t announce it to strangers; and while Charlie was fast becoming a friend, and Castiel seemed both fascinating and welcoming, Dean knew little of them.

A tiny _chink _of porcelain signaled Charlie pouring Castiel’s tea and drew Dean’s attention back up. Castiel’s eyes were still on him, but they slipped away as he rose and moved over to the dresser at the side of the room. A heavy wooden box sat atop it, and from within, Castiel drew a package.

“The photographs,” he said to Dean, holding them out as he resettled in his high-backed chair. “Please take them and do as you will with them. I’d have torn them to shreds and thrown them in the sea, if I didn’t think they’d probably be part of your investigation.”

“Are they so terrible?” Dean asked, looking down at the packet apprehensively.

“The photographs themselves, no,” Castiel corrected. “Only what they signify and the events that followed.”

Dean nodded, running his finger along the edge of the thick paper envelope to unseal it. “Perhaps I should hear it all in your own words, Castiel.”

“Very well,” Castiel said, picking up his tea with a warm smile at Charlie. “Where shall I begin?”

“At the beginning tends to be best,” Charlie quipped lightly.

“You’re such a straight-line thinker,” Castiel teased back, waving a hand at her dismissively. “But I suppose in this instance, you are correct.”

Turning his body slightly in his chair so as to better face Dean, Castiel pulled one foot up onto the seat he occupied, getting comfortable. Dean noted the lack of propriety with a small smile but said nothing. He was already getting the impression that it was just the way this man acted, par for the course, and Lord Michael himself had said he was a wildcard, after all.

“The first sitting was entirely normal,” Castiel began. His voice was incredibly deep and gravelly, and the more Dean heard of it, the more he wanted to. “The young man in question wanted a portrait to give to his sweetheart, so it was a simple job. I took the photograph at the beach, we returned here and he settled up with Miss Claire, and then he was on his way. I developed the picture that same day—you see the smudge, here?”

Castiel leaned over, but didn’t quite have the reach, so he stood and slid his chair up next to Dean’s. When he reseated himself, their knees brushed. Dean tried to ignore it, focusing on the evidence in his lap. Castiel pointed to the first photograph in the pile, resting his finger just below an ominous gray blob in the top corner of the frame. It was fairly amorphous, difficult to get a read on, but Dean thought that perhaps the edge of it showed a long, gangly limb of some kind.

“I see it,” Dean said, thoughtfully. “Is it something you’ve seen before?”

“Never,” said Castiel. “I’ve been using the same camera for the past eighteen months, and I’ve never had that gray, blooming effect—particularly not with appendages.”

Dean gave a small smile. “Well, I had to check, of course.”

Castiel returned his look, before continuing his story. “Luckily, the gentleman involved had a sizeable home with a telephone, so I was able to place a call and have him arrange to come back to the studio the next day, to resit.”

Dean looked up, realizing that there was a tightness growing in Castiel’s voice.

“He never arrived. I called to enquire, after a couple of days, and I was informed he had passed inexplicably in his sleep. He was only nineteen years old, Dean.” Castiel took a deep breath and shook his head before continuing. “I was saddened, of course, but I didn’t think too much of it until the next week, when Lady Ballard brought her niece for a sitting. She was to send her away to her sister in London for the season, you see, and she wanted a keepsake.”

“And the same happened?” Dean asked quietly. 

Castiel nodded, sliding the top photograph in the pile to the rear, the backs of his fingers just fractionally brushing Dean’s thigh as he did so. “Here,” he said, indicating the next picture, of a plain-faced but clearly wealthy young woman in pearls and a high-necked gown. Directly behind her, the gray blur peeked over one shoulder; in fact, it almost seemed to form a shadowy, misty face.

“How long?” Dean asked quietly.

“The same, a couple of days. She passed while reading, found when a servant went to inform her of guests. No one could explain it, but… it was more obvious, that time. There were bruises. Marks.”

Dean made a mental note to obtain the coroner’s reports for them all, as it seemed the bodies themselves might hold a signature that could lead to a culprit. “Distressing, but marks are good. They can help me. Next?”

Next up was an older man, standing stiff and formal, the gray blur, ever more defined, reaching two limbs toward him. “If I’d seen that first, I never would have taken the next picture,” Castiel said mournfully. “But I didn’t develop that one until the next day, and they had already had their sitting.”

The final picture was a young family, a mother, father, and small baby. The grey blur was by then as tall as they, with a distinctive humped appearance and gangly arms, leering toward them. Dean hesitated to ask what happened, as Castiel seemed distressed enough—his eyes shut as he looked away toward the fireplace—but he had to ask. 

“Castiel?” he asked softly. Propriety out the window, Dean’s hand moved across to Castiel’s knee, drawing his attention back gently. “What happened?”

“They, uh—” Castiel licked his lips, biting them in discomfort. “—they didn’t make it to the end of the street. Carriage accident. Their driver thought he hit something, but…”

“There was nothing to be found,” Dean finished for him when he seemed unable to. Carefully, hoping that he wasn’t crossing too many lines, Dean gave Castiel’s knee a comforting squeeze. “Castiel, I’m so sorry that this is happening to you. Living with the thought that these deaths are somehow your fault must be awful. I will do everything I can to make sure this doesn’t happen again, okay?”

Instead of looking straight at Dean, Castiel’s eyes dropped to the hand on his knee. Dean froze and began to pull away, concerned that he had offended, but Castiel drew his eyes immediately up to Dean’s face, pinning him with blue. He gave the lightest touch to the back of Dean’s hand. “Thank you, Dean. Just the fact that you are here, that you have come to help and don’t think I’m crazy… it’s a great relief.”

They gazed at each other, lost for a moment, until there was a soft, feminine throat cleared across the table. 

“Yes, I’m still here,” Charlie said in a teasing, sing-song voice, her eyes deliberately averted to the fireplace.

Feeling a flush flash and burn across his cheeks, Dean snapped his stray hand back to the photographs. What on Earth was wrong with him? A pair of pretty eyes and a commanding voice and he was forgetting everything of who he was and who he was representing. Hoping that he hadn’t embarrassed Castiel or made him uncomfortable, Dean cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. I think I have what I need for the time being. I’d like to take the photographs back to my room at the Chapterhouse to study tonight, if Castiel doesn’t mind?”

Castiel was busy looking at anywhere but Dean, though he cleared his throat when directly called upon and looked slowly back. “Yes, of course. As I said, I’d be rid of them already if I could, I was only keeping them for the investigation.”

Replacing her teacup on the tray before them with a gentle _chink_, Charlie smoothed her skirts as she stood. “Well then. As much as this has been entertaining, we should probably leave you be, Castiel. I’m sure Mrs. Harvelle will have your evening meal prepared soon, and I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Must you go?” Castiel sounded genuinely disappointed, rising along with her.

“I must,” Charlie said, her regret clear. “I have to report in to Elder Joshua before the day is done. Dean, however—” Her eyes slid sideways. “Nothing improper if he were to stay for dinner and a bourbon or two, get to know his client, hmm?” 

Dean blinked, not sure what Charlie was bordering on inferring. He did want to know Castiel, of course, but—

“That would be quite lovely,” Castiel announced, before Dean could answer. He moved to the corded pull near the dresser and rang for his housekeeper. “If you wish to cross-examine me, go ahead, but otherwise stay and have a cup or three with me, as a friend.”

Charlie’s hand tapped Dean’s shoulder as she whispered surreptitiously. “No matter what the laws say, Dean, being a man still extends you far more freedom than I have to spend my time how I wish. Stay, have a drink, see if you can get to know Castiel enough to satisfy that he is not a suspect here, hmm?”

It didn’t sound to Dean as if there was much chance at all that Castiel had any hand in the killings, but he nodded.

“Thank you, then. It’s been a long day of travel for me. I wouldn’t mind a decent supper—and if Mrs. Harvelle’s dinners are half as good as her scones, it’ll be even more than decent. And Castiel’s company, I am finding to be…” Dean had a momentary panic, wondering what on Earth he was starting to say. “…Very pleasant,” he finished somewhat awkwardly.

Castiel gave a little smile and averted his eyes to the door as Mrs. Harvelle arrived. Was that a small blush at his cheeks?

“Ellen, dearest, Charlie must go back to the Chapterhouse, but Dean is going to stay for supper and drinks.”

“Lord Winchester,” Mrs. Harvelle corrected pointedly, “is very welcome, I’m sure. A shame you must leave us, Ms. Bradbury. Another time, perhaps.”

Charlie nodded, gathering her skirts and stepping toward the door, but the housekeeper raised a hand, reaching in her direction though she did not touch.

“Ms. Bradbury, I trust that you have a car waiting, yes? You would not try to walk, unaccompanied?”

To Dean’s deep amusement, Charlie rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Yes, Ellen. Lord knows, I mustn’t put a heel on the pavement alone.”

Castiel gave out a snort, already striding over to the crystal decanter of bourbon atop the dresser. “Ellen, you know full well things have changed in the modern age. Not only that, but of all people, Charlie can protect herself. You know she beats me in the ring more often than not.”

Dean could almost feel his eyes bulging, though he did his best not to appear too flustered, gripping the arm of his chair. “You—You box with Charlie?”

“See,” Mrs. Harvelle said smoothly, though with no lack of sass. “Not everyone is quite as far ahead into the ‘modern age’ as you are, Castiel. You still have other people’s opinions to consider.”

A flicker of something that might have been disappointment flashed across Castiel’s face. “Apologies. I forget.”

Dean wanted to correct them all, wanted to say that he didn’t care much for the standards they were assuming he had—he himself wasn’t exactly known for propriety and he cared little whether Castiel and Charlie boxed or were more familiar than they should be. But he didn’t know where to begin, especially as he was supposed to be representing the Letters.

“No matter the reasoning behind it, our driver waited for Charlie. So, her walking or not isn’t an issue,” he responded diplomatically.

The moment passed, and Charlie departed, with a further embrace from Castiel and a mildly judgmental eye from Mrs. Harvelle. 

“I hope you don’t mind fish, Lord Winchester,” the housekeeper commented once Charlie had been seen on her way. “Castiel is rather fond of it, it’s so fresh here by the sea, and I was not expecting guests.”

“My brother and I live in an apartment belonging to the Men of Letters, with no true family home at all,” Dean said, watching Mrs. Harvelle’s eyebrows raise in surprise with some amusement. “Our meals come from the Berkeley Square cafeteria—so, I guarantee you, whatever you serve will be far superior to what I’m used to.”

“Very well,” she responded politely. Her eyes slid just once between Dean and Castiel, before landing on her master. “Castiel, will you be using the private studio today?”

Castiel blinked, and Dean thought he looked a little flustered, though he had no idea why that would be so; surely the man used his studio late often. “No, Ellen,” he replied, very hastily. “Dean is here for his investigation, that is all.”

The housekeeper looked between them once more, before she nodded and took her leave.

Bringing two crystal glasses of honey-colored bourbon, Castiel handed one to Dean before replacing his seat back near the fireplace and lowering himself into it. Dean felt a tiny throb of disappointment to have him further away, which he locked down tight and ignored.

“I apologize if my housekeeper seems outspoken,” Castiel said with a tiny smile. “It’s my own doing. She has been with me since birth in one form or another, and she rather forgets that I’m not even half of a De Angelis anymore.”

Dean sat silently staring at his drink, wanting to ask more about Castiel’s estrangement but not sure where the polite boundaries lay.

Castiel seemed to sense it. “Relax, Dean. I am nothing now, and legally never was despite my father's kindness to me, and as such your sensibilities are foundless. Be as you will with me. You see how Charlie and I are. Don’t hold your tongue. At least not when we are alone.”

“What did you do?” Dean blurted, against his best intentions. “I’ll be blunt, I have not much love for your brothers—though Gabriel is better than the rest, I must say. You must know, recognizing my name, that I’m the one responsible for Lucien’s exile. But even so, I had no idea they had frozen out a younger brother. No one knows.”

“No,” Castiel said to his cup, stretching his feet toward the fire. “I suppose they do not. I was always told I was a 'fortunate' bastard, in that at least my father came from such a good family and gave me his name, and should he acknowledge me more openly, my life could be quite blessed. Charles and Naomi knew of my existence since birth, and I am grateful at least that despite Naomi's insistence that my life be kept a secret, Charles chose to reach out to me when she passed. Of course, it was only weeks after that when he was taken ill himself, and my older brothers found their reasons to ship me off to Brighton. Michael, in particular, is excessively displeased with my existence and me in general.”

“He must care for you at least a little,” Dean interjected. “He sent me here, did he not? To ensure your safety and good name.”

“Honestly, that is curious to me, but I’m grateful for it. Michael disagrees with my lifestyle and everything it entails, but we were raised differently. If I had been brought up by Naomi De Angelis, perhaps I too would be a hateful, antediluvian fascist.”

Dean barely managed not to spit his drink back into his cup. 

Castiel looked over to him with that tiny smirk in his eyes. “Apologies, I am offending your sensibilities?”

“Not at all,” Dean hastily corrected. He shrugged and laughed, throwing his cautions to the wind in front of this strange, delightful man. “You have said nothing to me that I don’t hold to be true. I am just somewhat intrigued by you, I’ll admit. Usually I am the one called wild, constantly reined in by my brother or superiors, whether it be for speaking out or daring to gaze at a fine countenance on the street. Michael described you as deviant, to me; I’m certain he’d use no less of a word for me, if he knew me better. But your brothers’ opinions of you, or your ‘lifestyle’, as you say, have no bearing on the job I am here to do, I assure you.” 

Castiel watched Dean with his head tilted, his expression shifting only fractionally as he listened to his carefully chosen phrasing. Dean supposed Castiel could have said many things in return, but instead he smiled, and raised his glass.

“Well, then I was right in my first assessment of you. I shall be very pleased to get to know you, Dean Winchester.”

“And I you,” Dean agreed, allowing his eyes to linger on the handsome man for a longer moment than he should, before swilling back his bourbon.

“Dean!” Castiel called, as they stepped out into the chill night air at the front of the gallery. 

Dean paused, smoothing his leather cape across his shoulder, grateful for the extra layer. He had the package of photographs tucked under his other arm, ready to head back to his room and study them. “Yes, Castiel?”

“I very much enjoyed your company, this evening. Thank you,” Castiel confessed, “for deciding to get to know me yourself.”

“It has been a delight, Cas,” Dean said honestly, giving a small bow. 

And that was no exaggeration. Castiel had quickly turned their words from serious matters, and they’d spent dinner, and then several cups after, discussing so many things than Dean had lost count. Castiel spoke of shows in the local theaters, and how despite growing to love Brighton, he missed stepping out in London. They talked of books, and Dean told tales of his many colorful escapades as a Man of Letters. In turn, Castiel spoke passionately of his work, and even trusted Dean enough to confess that with Queen Victoria’s overturning of past decency laws, he intended to offer his services in particular to couples of the same sex, offering them a record of their lives the likes of which would have been difficult to explain, before. 

The evening had passed much more swiftly than either had realized. Dean was most pleased with Castiel—yes, the man was truly captivating in his beauty, but also in who he was. His sense of humor was so dry even Dean had sometimes missed it while they spoke, and he varied wildly between having innate knowledge of a subject or absolutely no idea at all. Several of Dean’s comments had sailed so widely over Castiel’s head that he had to laugh and then explain to Castiel what he had meant. The photographer didn’t seem to mind it, taking in everything Dean spoke of with a quiet, intense curiosity. And he wasn’t shy at all, blunt and forthright, despite the soft color that Dean had now noticed once or twice at his cheeks when they were close.

“If you truly did find my company pleasant,” Castiel began more quietly, a hint of apprehension in his voice, “I wonder if you might consider stepping out with me in the morning; a walk along the promenade and the beach, perhaps.” 

The chance to spend more time with Castiel was definitely not one Dean was going to turn down, but he paused, thinking that he should make sure not to lose focus on why he was there.

“I meant,” Castiel said hurriedly, looking uncomfortable at Dean’s slight pause, “to update me on the case, of course. I know you are—”

Dean reached out in the darkness of the empty street, lit only by the flickering of the new, but unpredictable, electric lamp poles that had been erected at intervals along the pavement. He caught the very tips of Castiel’s dismissively waving hand between his own fingers, stilling him for just a second before releasing him. “Cas,” he said, the nickname seeming natural now, “I would enjoy nothing better than to spend more time with you.”

“For the investigation,” Castiel breathed out, but Dean saw the tiny smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Of course,” said Dean with a smirk in return. “I will look at the photographs tonight and make some assessments. It is not too late to call back to London, I have some specific contacts there who will help me no matter the hour. I hope to have some kind of update by morning, at least—so, in fact, it is I who must insist we meet again tomorrow.”

“Well, if m’lord insists,” Castiel responded with a little more of a grin.

Dean had never had his title twisted in such a strangely affectionate, teasing way before. He found that he liked it, and for the first time in months, didn’t offer a correction. “Very well, Castiel. Thank you for your company. Breakfast at the Chapterhouse should be done by eight-thirty.”

“I’ll call for you on foot; the promenade is barely half a mile from your door.” Castiel inclined his head as he moved back through the entrance of the studio. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Castiel.”

The moon curved in a perfect smile overhead as Dean reaffirmed his top hat on his head, tucking the evidence he held more firmly under his arm. He had walked barely a hundred yards when a parked streetcar came alive with light.

“Lord Winchester,” came Ed’s voice from the front window. “Ms. Bradbury sent me to wait for you.”

“I apologize,” Dean said honestly as Ed hopped out to open the door for him. “I didn’t call, so I thought I would have to walk. If I’ve kept you waiting and from other jobs, I am sorry.”

“Not at all, sir. Ms. Bradbury merely wants to ensure that the South East Chapter hosts you well.”

The journey back to the Chapterhouse was short.

Charlie cornered Dean within moments of his arrival. She was seated in the lobby with a book—Poe, Dean noticed with amusement, hardly what the sticklers would consider suitable reading for a female—and immediately rose as he came through the door.

“Lord Winchester,” she greeted him, balancing her polite curtsey with a wide grin. “I finished reporting in to Elder Joshua and thought I would await your return, in case you needed anything from me.” She looped her arm through his elbow familiarly and led them down the hallway deeper into the Chapterhouse, toward the guest offices at the back. 

Dean smiled quietly, knowing what his new, nosy friend was about, but waiting until they were out of earshot of any porters or maids before he responded. “You are just trying to find out what I thought of Castiel.”

“Guilty,” she admitted with a dramatic sigh. “He’s a character. I’ve no qualms admitting that I shall judge you a little based on your reactions to him. As his best friend, I reserve the right.”

With a hearty laugh, Dean stopped outside the door to the room he’d been assigned. It was a simple office with an adjoined bedroom, but it would suffice entirely for his purposes. “Then rest assured, I found him extremely good company, Charlie. In fact, I’ll see him again in the morning, to walk the promenade.”

Charlie blinked. “In the morning?”

“I may as well update him on the case in person, rather than by telephone, don’t you think?” Dean said, his hand on the door to his office. “Would you like to come with us? We’ll leave straight from breakfast.”

“Oh, no,” Charlie responded, her grin far coyer than should be proper. “Castiel never rises before noon, Dean. If he’s doing so now, it’s definitely for you, not for me.”

Praying that he wasn’t flushing, Dean opened his mouth to deny any such thing—but Charlie gave him no time. She fixed him with a hearty wink and turned on her heel, moving away down the corridor back to the main rooms of the Chapterhouse. “Goodnight, Lord Winchester!” she called. “Don’t research all night—get some rest too!”

Slightly thrown by her comment about his and Castiel’s walk, Dean shut himself in his room to breathe for a moment, before setting about examining the evidence.

Men of Letters offices like the one in which Dean was staying were fairly well equipped for any field agent. Most agents were tied to a specific office, but even so, they traveled widely to solve their cases. Certain basics were always provided, with more equipment available by simple request. 

To take a look at Castiel’s photographs, Dean began at the provided desk, using a fixed binocularscope to view them; a simple contraption of two eyepieces, attached to a moveable arm on the desk, which would greatly magnify what he could see. As he adjusted it, zooming in to the photographs as much as he could, Dean was intensely grateful to live in the age that he did. The past decade had brought such leaps in the country’s knowledge of science and magic, of electricity and psychology, of steam and physics. All of which had made his job investigating the supernatural substantially easier.

He’d been in his position for years, ever since he came of age and his father John had passed, leaving him to take care of his brother Sam, who back then had still been of school age. He was glad, selfishly really, that these days, a good portion of his job could be solved with the specific application of science, rather than _quite _so much running through the countryside with wooden stakes. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, and his knees were already letting him know he’d done far too much of that back then.

The photographs themselves were exquisite, like all of Castiel’s. The first one appeared to have been taken near a rocky cliff, rather than in the studio, and yet somehow it was still lit perfectly. Dean marveled over it for only a moment before adjusting the binocularscope and getting back to work. The grey smudges on the photographs had a certain uneven quality to them which caught Dean’s eye, and he was just reaching for the drawer of tools in the desk so that he could investigate further when the telephone chimed.

“Winchester,” Dean answered, picking up the trumpet-like earpiece and leaning closer into the mouthpiece with a distracted frown, his eyes still on the photographs.

“Good evening, sir,” a chirpy voice announced. “We have a call from a Samuel Winchester. Will you accept?”

“Put him through, thank you,” Dean answered.

There was a moment of clicking and buzzing, and them his brother’s voice came across the line.

“Dean?”

“Loud and clear, Sammy. Good to hear from you.”

“The line isn’t too bad, out there in the wilds?”

“It’s Brighton, Sam, not half way up the moors, for god’s sake,” Dean chuckled.

“It’s not too terribly backwards for you?” Sam teased.

“They have electricity, street cars, even the new-fangled kind of telephone that lets me disconnect my little brother if he’s just being annoying,” Dean said calmly.

“Fine, fine. You’re obviously being distracted from something, as grumpy as you sound.”

“I have the photographs,” Dean explained, “from Cas.”

“Cas, is it?”

“Castiel, I mean. Mister Novak. The photographer—”

“I know who you meant,” Sam said, amused.

Dean began rattling around in the drawer for a knife or scalpel of some kind, still holding the phone to his ear. “The pictures became clearer the more he took—it’s definitely a creature of some kind. I’ll send the photographs up to you by first post in the morning, once I’ve had a chance to look at them myself.”

“Alright,” Sam agreed amiably. “I’ll take a look as soon as they get here. I’m sure Ms. Mills won’t mind.”

“Of course she won’t,” Dean said, brandishing a sharp letter opener in victory. “You have that woman wrapped around your little finger, like almost every other woman you meet.”

Sam chuckled. “As if you don’t, along with half the men, too.”

Dean gave out a low, distracted laugh, falling quiet for a moment as he carefully scraped the edge of the letter opener blade across the first photograph, very gently. Picking up a magnifier, he held the small, telescopic device up to his eye and brought the blade within viewing distance.

“I wanted to check in with you of course,” Sam said, “but I also have some fairly interesting news.”

“Oh?” Dean asked, his attention still only partial. 

“Gabriel approached me today.”

That caught Deans notice, at least momentarily, and he leaned back in the swivel chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk, the magnifier still at his eye. He spoke loudly, so Sam could still hear him. “So, the trickster finally made a move, eh?”

“Not like that, Dean. And I’m not sure that nickname is appropriate now we’re not at school together any longer—he hardly pulls pranks now he’s an Elder.”

Dean snorted. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Sam. Somebody enchanted all those suits of armor to flirt with the men last All Hallows, and it sure wasn’t Raphael.”

“Regardless,” Sam said through his chuckles, “what Gabriel approached me about was rather serious.”

Dean brought the blade he’d scratched across the surface of the salt-paper up to his magnifier so that he could study it as they talked. “Have at it then Sam, tell me the whole tale.”

“I was in the transept of Saint Mary’s, waiting for Mister Allen to bring me some of the scrolls from the Pictish archives in Glasgow, and Gabriel appeared from nowhere. He asked if I had a moment, and dragged me off into one of the confession booths, of all places.”

Dean couldn’t help another snort. “Of course he did.”

“Dean,” Sam said sharply, a reprimand that time.

“Sorry. Sammy, you will never convince me that man doesn’t want a piece. He wrote you _poetry.”_

“We were _fifteen_,” Sam argued, as if such a rationalization would help in the slightest.

“Fine, go ahead,” Dean said, smirking to himself. “Gabriel De Angelis dragged you away to private, enclosed space, and then he…”

“Talked!” interrupted Sam desperately.

Dean gave a low snicker but allowed his brother time to finally speak.

“He told me,” Sam’s voice was pointed, determined to ignore Dean, it seemed, “that he had overheard his brothers discussing the fact that there would soon be an opening for a new agent.”

Startled, Dean finally removed the magnifier from his eye, frowning as he slowly sat back up. “Wait—what?”

Agents were numbered. One in, one out; the only way to become a member of the Men of Letters, unless the Queen herself decreed an increase in their numbers, was dead man’s boots.

“He came to me excited and has offered to sponsor me, should the position arise.”

“Sam!” Dean exclaimed, torn between his uncomfortable suspicion and delight for his brother. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say he would?”

“You did,” Sam replied, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice. No matter Dean’s teasing, Dean knew that Sam was genuinely fond of the youngest De Angelis brother and missed the small blond man since their lives had sent them in different directions. “I admit, it would be pleasant to see more of Gabriel. But at whose expense, I would like to know.”

“Indeed,” Dean answered, dark and thoughtful. “Let me tell you what I learned today, as we’re on the subject of the De Angelis family.”

Dean relayed Charlie’s suspicions about the De Angelis’ intentions toward Castiel, and Castiel’s own words about his brothers—leaving out the part where he referred to the leader of the agency as a hateful, antediluvian fascist—and added in his own thoughts.

“I do wonder,” Dean surmised at the end, “if there is a little more going on with this case than I thought. I have no proof one way or another to what Charlie says. As for Castiel’s assertions, Michael’s bigotry, as much as I despise it, would be seen as a perfectly valid reason by some for him to exile his brother.”

“It is curious though,” Sam said carefully, “that their father wanted to claim Castiel as blood, but fell ill so soon, leaving Michael to choose the opposite path.”

“Curious indeed,” Dean agreed. Both of their voices were low, things left unsaid. “Do something for me, Sam?”

“Anything, of course.”

“Have a bit of a quiet look around at headquarters. If Gabriel thinks a position will be coming vacant soon, it could be in everyone’s interest to find out whose. You should also keep an eye on Gabriel himself.”

“Dean! Surely you don’t—”

“No, Sam, I don’t,” Dean said calmly. “We both know Gabe better than that, or we did once. But he himself might not be in a good position, if his opinions go against his brothers.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Sam softly. “We have, after all, just learned what Michael has done to one brother he disapproved of. Whatever could Castiel have done that was so terrible?”

Dean shrugged, though Sam couldn’t see it. “I felt it wasn’t my place to ask directly. Given his friendship with Charlie and his nature, I suspect it was something as simple as showing too much affection to one that Michael didn’t approve of, or even speaking out in favor of people like Charlie. People like me.”

Sam hummed thoughtfully. “People like him, too, then?”

“He hasn’t specified. Again, not my place to ask. Michael’s disagreement with his ‘lifestyle’ could come from many angles. He’s hardly proper.”

“Alright,” Sam seemed to agree. “Well, I should go. I’ll seek out Gabriel privately, perhaps. See what else I can get from him and wait for you to send the evidence packet in the morning’s post. I’ll put aside the scroll work and jump right on it.”

“Whatever would I do without you, brother?”

“Be forced to do your own research, for a start. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Dean leaned forward, replacing the telephone receiver on its hanger next to the mouthpiece. He then turned his attention back to the letter opener blade. After a minute, with a satisfied and yet curious hum, Dean lowered the blade down to the table and rose to head down to the lobby and request a sample bag and the name of the resident alchemist.

On the desk, the letter opener gleamed in the yellow lamplight. The Eddison bulb cast harsh shadows on the tabletop which highlighted the miniscule strings of a thick, gray tar-like substance on the edge of the blade. 


	3. Swept Chill Currents

_Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the Earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore. – Lord Byron_

Seagulls harshly announced the misty arrival of April, the weather not quite agreeing with the calendar that it should be leaving winter behind. They soared and swept above the early-morning low tide, diving down to the revealed sea bed to devour some unseen creature, or strutted along the wet sand, overturning stones and leaving small, flat footprints along the shore. The air was chill, though nothing that Dean and Castiel couldn’t ignore with the simple, fashionably high-necked coats they both wore—Dean’s black, his red hand embroidered across his heart, Castiel’s navy blue and unadorned. The air had a tang of seaweed and salt, making Dean’s nose wrinkle, as unused to it as he was.

“You get used to the smell after a while,” Castiel said quietly. He was intense and attentive in everything, and when his focus turned to Dean, he seemed to notice everything, even the tiniest of motions.

Dean didn’t complain; Castiel’s attention felt like a gift, even if he sometimes squirmed at how vivid it was. But less so, the more time they spent in each other’s company. 

Castiel had arrived at the Men of Letters’ Chapterhouse on Manchester Street just after eight that morning, prepared to wait for Dean to receive him; but having already finished with breakfast, Dean had insisted that they leave directly and make the most of the time. He’d updated Castiel on the basics immediately—that he had a sample from the photographs which was being tested in the Chapterhouse laboratory, and that the original pictures were now making their way to his brother in London, for further research. He expected to hear from Sam by noon, and he’d put in a request to the local police station to obtain their reports. Done with that, Dean and Castiel just strolled.

The wood of the promenade creaked beneath Dean’s feet; they walked along a small platform raised above the water, sharing it only with the occasional fisherman. Further up the coast, in the distance, Dean could see a huge pier being constructed—dwarfing the one they walked upon. Castiel told him of it, saying that the great Brighton Pier, as the locals were already referring to it, likely wouldn’t open for another couple of years, but he believed it would be a truly impressive feat of modern engineering. Seeing its sheer size, Dean had to agree. But their smaller promenade was perfect for them, simple and near-empty. 

They strolled close, neither speaking of much beyond the casual observation of their surroundings. 

“Look,” Castiel called out, raising his arm to point. “Dolphins!”

Dean squinted as they reached the end of the wooden pier, unseeing. Castiel’s hand came gently to his shoulder, turning him just slightly and lifting his arm to Dean’s eyeline, so he could follow it. Finally, Dean spotted the grey shapes beneath the water, darting around in a large pod of what must have been well over a dozen. 

“I see them!” 

Castiel’s hand lingered on his shoulder just a moment more, and Dean could see the genuine delight in his small smile when he turned his eyes back to him.

“You really like it here, don’t you?” Dean questioned softly, unable to keep his gaze from resting on Castiel more than on the dolphins.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted gently. “I wasn’t supposed to, I’m sure. But I’ve made a home here.”

They turned, shoulder to shoulder as they moved back down toward the beach. “I’m glad that you don’t hate it here,” Dean confessed lowly, keeping his words just for them. “I detest that there are still situations in our lives, in our country, where one man’s words have power over another. But I’m glad at least that you aren’t suffering for it.”

Castiel knocked his shoulder against Dean’s own and gave him a small smile. “I appreciate that, Dean. Really, I do. You are not what I expected, given that my brother sent you… I appreciate that, too.”

“You really expected that your brother would send someone awful, or not help at all?”

Castiel gave a short nod. “Yes. I’ve never been able to prove a single one of my brother’s wrongdoings—who would take my word on them, after all? I’m the exile, the deviant, the bad blood. He’s a De Angelis, an Elder, a sorcerer. I’m nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Dean said, rather more sharply than he intended. “You are not nothing. You are a De Angelis, too, more to the point. And I detest the word _deviant_.” Dean’s lip curled, and he let out a sigh before he shook his head. “It’s a term from a bygone era. Whatever it is about you that Michael would categorize that way, he has no right to disinherit you because of it. That is your father’s choice, surely?”

“Oh, it should be,” Castiel agreed, stepping down onto the beach. “But I sense Michael’s hand there, too.”

Dean jumped down beside Castiel, his long coat billowing as his boots imprinted on the sand. “Oh?” he questioned thoughtfully, not wanting to push despite his desperate curiosity.

“Weeks after Naomi passed, my father summoned me to his home.” Castiel looked out to sea as they strolled, rather than at Dean. Dean sensed that the subject was sensitive, so he merely listened. “We spoke, man to man, and he apologized for listening to his late wife and not bringing me to his home as a child. My own mother, Rebecca, died when I was young and I spent most of my youth at boarding schools, knowing my father in name only—I was near an orphan for all the contact Naomi allowed, and if it hadn’t been for Ellen, I’d have been entirely alone.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but kept his words to himself. It wasn’t up to him to judge the De Angelis family, but it was a stark contrast to the way he’d given up everything to raise Sam. Family had been all they had.

“My father was completely lucid when we spoke, Dean. He was hale and hearty, and I was overjoyed to get a chance to finally know him and my brothers, with Naomi out of the way.”

Castiel lapsed into silence for a moment, studying the sun beginning to climb over the waves, the grayness of the early morning beginning to depart. 

“It didn’t work out that way?” Dean prompted softly after a moment.

“Not at all. News of Charles’s illness reached me only a few weeks later. Michael claimed that his mind had finally gone, that he had given over leadership of the family, his estate, and the Men of Letters as a whole, to him.”

“But Lord De Angelis showed no sign of such deterioration when you saw him?” Dean asked carefully, not wanting to jump to any conclusions—but despite his best intentions, he took a tiny step, and there conclusions were. It was very suspicious. 

“Not a bit. He was sharp. His mind had always wandered—he had visions, you know. The sorcery in his blood was so strong that he could see the future, or sometimes even the past.”

“I’ve heard rumors of it,” Dean confessed. “But I met Elder Charles very rarely, myself. When I first joined the Letters I was just a lowly field agent. He spoke to my father far more than he ever did to me.”

“Your father is an agent too?”

“Was,” Dean corrected. “He passed some years back, and my mother when I was young. It’s just me and my little brother now; I raised him, once my father was gone.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. It seems we’re similar in more ways than I first thought,” Castiel offered with a quiet smile, tearing his eyes from the sea and back to Dean.

“Indeed,” Dean agreed. “Though I’m a commoner with no parents who became a lord, and you’re a De Angelis who may as well have had no parents, who became a commoner. Poetic, almost.”

Castiel gave a wry smile. They had progressed along the beach far enough that they were approaching a dark brown, rocky cliff, and Castiel directed them toward it, out of the slowly rising shoreline. “It is quite poetic. Though, I still suspect my father is alive and more well than we are all led to believe—but I can’t prove it.”

Dean nodded silently and followed Castiel’s lead across to the cliffs.

“Do you think I did it?” Castiel asked suddenly, when they neared the bottom of the cliff. “I promise I shan’t think ill of you if you do. You’re merely doing your job here.”

Dean blinked in surprise, slowing his pace and causing Castiel to draw to halt and turn to face him. “Of course you were a suspect,” Dean said honestly. “But I can tell you truthfully, Cas, that as I have met you and spent some time with you, I can’t find a single place in my heart to doubt you. My report will certainly show that I find you entirely innocent, and a victim as much as any other.”

A weight seemed to lift from Castiel’s shoulders, and he gave a long, soft exhale, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “You have no idea how much it relieves me to hear that,” he confessed, his voice rough. “I’ve even worried, in those dark moments before dawn when terrible thoughts present themselves, that there was something wrong about me—that perhaps my father’s visions and sorcery hadn’t passed me by, as I always thought, and that this was some hideous manifestation of my own doing.”

Dean had no power to resist stepping up to Castiel’s hand and squeezing it firmly. When Castiel’s eyes opened again in surprise, Dean looked at him intently, wanting to drive his words home. “This is not some vision or ill luck, Cas. This is some creature, drawing closer to you from what I can tell, and playing games along the way or leaving a deliberate trail. You are innocent, and moreover I believe, a good man, tormented by what is happening as much as anyone.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped further in relief. As Dean released his hand, Castiel raised his own to Dean’s shoulder, resting it there for a long moment. “It’s a huge relief to my spirits to know that you don’t think badly of me, Dean,” he confessed. 

Dean reached up to squeeze Castiel’s hand on his shoulder before Castiel dropped it down. If it slowly slid down the arm of his coat, almost stroking the length of Dean’s arm before it fell clear, neither of them spoke of it. They merely turned and progressed further toward the cliff face.

The beach curved inland at the bottom of the tall rock formation and small waves lapped at the base of it with gravelly _shush_-ing noises. Both wearing waterproof boots, Dean and Castiel took a minute to stand at the edge, skipping stones out to sea.

Dean had just pulled his arm back from skipping an impressive seven-bouncer across the flatter surface beyond the waves, when he caught Castiel staring at him. He turned, quirking an eyebrow in challenge. “Something on my face?” he asked, grinning.

Castiel was caught in a slight flush, but he responded nonetheless, gesturing up to the morning sun, now beginning to highlight the cliffs and beach in soft, magical tones. “The light. The way it’s hitting you as you stand there…” Castiel trailed off, shrugging shyly. “I was merely thinking that you would make an enrapturing subject to photograph.”

“Enrapturing,” Dean echoed, aware that his mouth had fallen slightly open.

“Not that—I mean, at the moment I am afraid to photograph anyone, lest I draw forth some hideous beast again.” Clearly somewhat embarrassed, Castiel turned his gaze from Dean back to the cliffs, directing their conversation firmly to photography. “In fact, this cliff is where I took the first of the shots that started this whole problem.”

“The young man who wanted a keepsake for his sweetheart,” Dean recalled.

Castiel nodded and gestured to their left, a little further back on the shore, where the waves would lap at high tide. “Just up here.”

Dean made for the spot and Castiel followed him. 

“Where was he standing?” Dean asked. He opened his coat, digging into the leather pockets on the bandolier he wore to contain his field kit and flintlock; no matter how formal or informal he was dressed, it was always beneath his outer layers, as it should be for all good Men of Letters. He’d been known to sleep in it even, with his flintlock below his pillow, and that habit had saved his life more than once. 

“Uh—here,” Castiel indicated, taking a couple of steps forward. “The tide was high, so I had him step right up onto this rock, here.”

Taking a telescopic magnifier and a small scalpel from within a leather tool pouch at his hip, Dean crouched down on the rocks, pushing his coat out behind him so that it didn’t get tangled in his feet. He focused on the brown, uneven stone, channeling his attention through the magnifier.

On the rock next to where the subject had been standing, Dean caught glimmers of gray in the light. His stomach clenched. Something in the beach air seemed to change, as if the sun receded just from Dean’s small revelation. A breeze picked up, the ocean swept chill currents in their direction, and clouds seemed to gather overhead. 

Castiel crossed his arms against the sudden bite in the air and hunched his shoulders forward.

Dean scraped his scalpel across the rock, the scratching sound of the blade on the stone seeming strangely loud in the quiet morning. 

“Is that…” Castiel asked, squinting down at him.

“The same substance that was on the photographs? I assume so.”

Castiel watched silently as Dean gathered some of the smoke-colored, tar-like strings into a sample collector. He seemed subdued again, and Dean couldn’t help but approach him once he was done. He tucked the sample vial into the pouch on his belt, and closed his coat against the breeze, before reaching across to rest his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Dean ducked just slightly, deliberately trying to catch his gaze.

“I promise you, Cas, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

Castiel gave a small smile. “I have faith in you.”

“And perhaps,” Dean added with a cautiously coy grin, testing the waters, “when I have found your monster, you’ll be able to photograph me after all.”

He didn’t miss the flush on Castiel’s cheeks, but neither said anything further. In silent agreement, they both headed to the Novak Studio, for further investigation.

Even with the turn of the weather and the recovery of more, unexpected, evidence, Dean had to admit to himself that his morning walk with Castiel had been more than pleasant. He knew his mind; he was becoming increasingly attracted to and intrigued by the handsome photographer every time they met, but he would not risk any kind of move while they were still in an ultimately professional relationship, he told himself.

But by god was it hard.

Castiel’s eyes all but twinkled as they made their way down the pavement toward the studio door together. He fished inside the hip pocket of his coat, taking out a chunky iron key which Dean surmised must unlock the heavy double door to the gallery level. 

“Would it be entirely improper for me to want to steal more of your time, Dean, and invite you up to my apartments for mid-morning tea? I’m sure my housekeeper would be happy to treat you to another of her wonderful apple cinnamon scones.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think you care one dot if it’s proper, and I’m certain if we weren’t professionally involved you wouldn’t even be bothering me to ask, just hollering at Mrs. Harvelle to warm the teapot.”

“You know me so very well already.” Castiel grinned. “So, was that a yes, that I can selfishly keep you from your business a little longer?”

Oh, how Dean wanted to ask in exactly what capacity Castiel was hoping to keep him, wanted to find out if his rapidly swelling feelings were returned. Dean didn’t do this, he wasn’t a sentimental man, he didn’t have affairs that touched his heart, only ones that ignited his groin. But he was damned already, knowing full well that for him, this was both, even after such a short acquaintance. But for Castiel? Still, he was unsure.

“I’m afraid that I really must make some headway on sweeping the studio myself,” he answered instead.

Castiel took the response well, and it was only because Dean was watching for it that he noticed his eyes fall fractionally as they came up to the door. “Of course. I am taking up too much of your time, truly. I apologize. You are here for a reason, after all, not to socialize.”

Dean allowed his fingers to move forward, gently touching to Castiel’s elbow, drawing his oceanic gaze back up. “I am convinced though, that my exploration of the studio would go much faster if I had you by my side.”

“I wouldn’t be merely hindering you?” Castiel asked, his key paused on the way to the lock.

“Certainly not. I cannot choose pleasure over business, but I would much like to mix the two when I can,” Dean said boldly.

“And when this ill business is resolved?” Castiel questioned softly, his eyes on Dean’s. Their gaze was shared, charged and intense, and it was only when Dean’s chest throbbed that he realized they had stepped so close he wasn’t breathing. But then Castiel blinked and answered himself before Dean could. “When the case is closed, you will return to London.”

“Yes,” Dean admitted dully, suddenly adrift. “Once we wrap this up, I will be required to turn in my reports post haste, back in London.”

“Of course,” Castiel said quietly, looking down as he fiddled with the key for the door they stood outside of. Before Dean’s eyes, he forced a smile back onto his face and looked back up at him. “Well. At least I can enjoy your company for a short while longer. Best to make the most of it and not complain,” he added, more quietly, before pressing the key into the lock.

Dean had already parted his lips to respond. He could feel untoward announcements about to spill from him, declarations that if Castiel so wanted, he would come to Brighton every week, braving the dirigible if need be—but the door swung open.

And Castiel had not yet turned the key.

Both men stared, puzzled. The weight of the door meant that it only opened two inches, but it was definitely not locked.

“You locked up when you left this morning?” Dean asked carefully.

“I double checked, actually, as Miss Claire was inside, and I would not have it that someone could wander in from the street when she is alone.”

“You’re certain?”

“Incredibly. I would always watch out for Claire, without a doubt.”

Dean wasn’t sure what relation Castiel had to Miss Claire, if any, but he could tell from the concern in his voice that he worried for her. “Allow me,” Dean said, stepping forward and unbuttoning his coat. He pulled his flintlock handgun from his bandolier and cocked it ready. 

Castiel watched him, his blue eyes wide, and stepped back with a nod, allowing Dean to enter the Novak Studio building first.

Beyond the door was a dim corridor, lit only by an old-fashioned oil lamp on the wall. Dean knew that the rest of the building was fully electrified; perhaps this area was lighted in such a way for the purposes of the art; Dean didn’t know enough about such things to be sure. He moved down the hallway on silent feet, Castiel hovering a couple of yards behind him. Dean flicked his eyes back to check on him and found Castiel’s expression to be torn between fear and fury.

The idea that someone—something—might have broken into his studio definitely had him riled up. Dean couldn’t help but wonder what it took to make the stoic photographer really angry.

The hallway opened up into the small lobby where Miss Claire’s booth was. Everything was quiet; the ledger sat on the desk as Dean had seen it previously, and the souvenir postcards were all neatly stacked in the rack. Sticking his head in into the main gallery, Dean found it to be just as still as the corridor.

“Miss Claire?” he called, stepping through the archway into the gallery.

Nothing.

“Claire?” Castiel yelled from behind him, louder.

It only took a few minutes for Dean to check all of the gallery rooms, the main studio and the developing rooms at the back.

“There’s no one here,” Dean said finally. “Can you tell if anything is missing?”

Castiel looked around, blinking. “There’s a lot here, but I can try and see…”

Dean gave him a firm nod. “Alright. You take a look around, and I’ll contact the Chapterhouse and the local police station. You’ll need to give a report of the break-in, whether anything is missing or not.

Silent and upset-looking, Castiel nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll look around.”

Dean wanted to stay and calm Castiel, comfort him as best he could, but he knew that it was important that the crime was reported as swiftly as possible. So, he moved quickly to the booth where Miss Claire greeted visitors and opened the door to let himself into the small space.

There wasn’t much there, but he’d noticed the first day that the studio’s telephone was there, on the desk beside the cashbox and accounting ledger.

Miss Claire had tiny, neat handwriting that Dean couldn’t help but admire as he picked up the telephone’s earpiece.

“Operator.”

“Good morning,” Dean said quickly. “Police Station, please, wherever is closest.”

“Is it a current emergency, sir?”

“I don’t believe so. The front desk will be fine.”

Waiting for the switchboard operator to put him through to the Brighton police station, Dean’s eyes swept around the small room—no larger than a closet, really—to seek out any additional clues. It was an idle habit more than anything, but a good one for a Lettersman to have. 

He was explaining the suspected breaking-and-entering to the excessively cheerful woman on the other end of the line, when his eyes swept across the floor beside the chair.

As soon as the policewoman had the details, he hung up the mouthpiece with haste and reconnected, his eyes fixed on the floor. As the operator put him through to the Chapterhouse, he pulled his head back from the telephone, angling himself toward the door.

“Cas!” he called out loudly, the nickname—affectionate nickname, if he was truthful—now seeming utterly natural. “Come here!”

The Chapterhouse picked up, and Dean returned his eyes to the floor, instructing the Men of Letters clerk who answered the phone firmly, “Send Ms. Bradbury to the Novak Studio, immediately. She’ll know who and where, just send her.”

Dean hung up, to find Castiel in the doorway, his eyebrow raised quizzically. 

He followed the line of where Dean had previously been staring, and his expression fell. A small gasp was the only sound Castiel made, his eyes locked on the booth floor.

Gray as thick smoke, the tar-like smudges were more noticeable than ever.

“It—it’s getting worse, isn’t it,” Castiel choked out, immobile. 

“Cas,” Dean managed softly, rising from the chair and stepping toward him.

“Claire—Claire should be here, she’s supposed to be here—” Castiel’s voice shook and cut off at odd intervals, a tiny tremor making itself known across his shoulders.

Dean didn’t spare a single thought for propriety as he pulled Castiel into his chest, hugging him close as if he could somehow protect him from what he was seeing. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean soothed gently. “It’s okay. We don’t know that anything happened to Claire.”

And Castiel melted into him, no supportive slaps of shoulders or attempts at making their position anything other than what it was; an embrace, a comfort, two people far closer than they should be for the short time they’d known each other.

But it seemed to calm Castiel, the other man—perhaps only an inch shorter—allowing himself to be enveloped in Dean’s arms, his head tucked into his shoulder. 

“How did it go from photographs, to—to—” Castiel whispered into Dean’s coat, his arms clinging tight and desperate around Dean’s waist.

“I don’t know, Cas, I’m so sorry, I don’t know,” Dean murmured, desperately fighting the urge to press a kiss—that would have been ill-timed at best and unwanted at worst—down onto Castiel’s crown.

Instead Dean held him close, and breathed him in, and enjoyed the feel of the soft strands of dark-brown, untamed hair that brushed across his lips as he said, low and forceful, “I told you I would fix this, Cas. And I will, I promise.”

“I have faith in you,” Castiel said, echoing his earlier sentiment, his breath puffing on Dean’s neck as he calmed.

The front door creaked, and they jumped apart like lovers caught in a tryst.

Which they weren’t, Dean had to remind himself. They couldn’t be.

“Lord Winchester?” A strange accent came from the front of the studio. “Sergeant Lafitte, Brighton Police, Sir.”

Dean noticed that Castiel’s cheeks were vivid pink and he hoped that he hadn’t gone too far, overstepped and allowed his feelings to show too much. He wasn’t sure where their boundaries were, whether they had any; Castiel was often playful, verging on scandalously flirtatious at times, but those blushes… they said more than his words did. Dean wanted to ask Castiel what he felt, if this was perhaps—as Dean felt—more than a little lust at first sight, if this was something more… but how could he, with the situation they were in? It wouldn’t be right. Dean was a representative of the Letters, and agent. And he must act as such.

The tall, amiably hulking policeman moved down the corridor toward them. Castiel took a deliberate step away from Dean, and ridiculously, it hurt somehow. 

_What the hell are you doing,_ Dean thought._ You only met him such a short time ago. You have no right to feel any kind of way about anything he does._

“Castiel Novak, I’m the owner,” Castiel was saying, stepping forward and offering a hand to the black-uniformed officer. “I’ll be able to answer any questions you may have.”

Sergeant Lafitte turned to Dean then, cocking his head in question as he extended his hand once more, bowing low over it. “So you must be Lord Winchester, the gentleman who made the call.”

“Indeed, Dean, please. Men of Letters.”

The policeman nodded and ignored his request, asking, “You are here for business, Lord Winchester?”

_No, other than in the most basic of senses._

“Yes, I was dispatched to the Novak Studio by the local chapter. We believe the place was broken into while we were out early today, rather than overnight.”

The sergeant nodded, knowing better than to ask for details of Men of Letters business it seemed, and he pulled a notebook and tiny pencil from his pocket. “Alright then, Mister Novak—would you be able to walk me through what happened and guide me around the premises?”

Dean nodded to Castiel, excusing himself, and stepped out to the street to wait for Charlie.

The sun was already setting before Dean got a chance to sit down and write out a telegram to his brother. He had attempted to contact him at noon, but there had been no answer at the Men of Letters Library; Ms. Mills had informed Dean that Sam was out on business, called away by Gabriel De Angelis. Dean was concerned but could do little to assuage his curiosity until Sam got in touch.

So, he sat at his desk and penned a telegraph updating Sam on the developments of the day. He only mentioned the professional developments of course, not the other things that kept continually drifting through his mind. 

He informed him of the gray substance at the beach, and then the break in at the studio. Castiel had helpfully taken some photographs of the staining on the floor in the welcome booth, and Dean told Sam he would send them up to London immediately by courier. 

Miss Claire had still not been found. 

She lived, Dean had discovered, in one of Castiel’s rooms, above the studio. There was nothing untoward about it, Mrs. Harvelle had assured him when she came down to deliver tea to the three men—Dean, Castiel, and Sergeant Lafitte. Claire was an orphan and had her own tiny, self-contained apartment in what had once been Castiel’s third studio. The photographer had found he rarely used it, favoring his main studio for business and the private one that Dean had not seen for his other projects, and so he had Mrs. Harvelle turn it into a small living for the young girl. The housekeeper had not explained how Claire and Castiel had met, and Dean certainly didn’t feel it was his place to ask—but as Castiel had been left out in the cold by his own family after his mother’s death, Dean could certainly see why he would feel inclined to take on a foundling to work at his studio.

The police officer had kept Castiel all morning, and despite him wanting to stay merely for support, Castiel had ushered Dean away at lunch, once he had given his own statement. He’d told him to go and contact his brother, and so once Dean had tried but failed to speak to Sam, he had turned his eyes back to the evidence he already had. He’d spent most of the afternoon in the Chapter’s small but well-equipped laboratory with Charlie, running test after test on the gray substance from the rocks and the Novak Studio floor.

Detailing as much as he was able in a small telegram, Dean finished up the missive to his brother and rang the bell in his room that would summon a porter. Within minutes, the young blond that had accompanied him and Charlie from the train station appeared.

“Ahh, Miss Jo,” Dean said, inclining his head politely. “You arrived swiftly.”

“Lord Winchester.” Jo curtseyed down deeply. “It is a surprise that you even know my name, sir.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin. “Your Charlie isn’t shy of sharing. And I’m not one to stand on protocol.”

“That much we’ve all heard, Red Hand,” the porter admitted with a small smile. “Did you need me to update your office on the happenings at the studio today, sir?”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean stepped to the desk and grabbed the parchment he’d written the telegram text upon. “The Research Library, actually. Charlie told you about the break-in already?”

“Oh—no,” Jo said, giving a little laugh. “Apologies, Sir. I forgot you don’t know what a small world our Chapter is compared to yours, not to mention our town. I am Jo Harvelle, sir. Castiel’s housekeeper is my mother.”

“Oh!” Dean blinked. “Well then, you know all about it. Is your mother well? I’m sure she is just as familiar with Miss Claire as Castiel is.”

“She’s doing best as can be,” Jo said as she took the parchment from Dean. “She helped Castiel organize search parties this afternoon, but no one could turn up even one pretty blonde hair. They’ll resume in the morning.”

Dean nodded swiftly. “And I shall assist. Perhaps my superiors would wish me to keep my attention more specifically on the studio, but I can’t sit by. It’s all connected, after all.”

_And I can’t bear the thought of Castiel not knowing what happened,_ he thought to himself, recalling the lost, upset look across Castiel’s face in the booth, and the way he’d softened gratefully when Dean held him.

“Of course, sir,” Jo responded with a smile. “The rumors say that despite your rough edges, you’re a fine man; and Charlie bears it out to be true, in her brief acquaintance with you. We didn’t think for a moment you’d sit by.”

Dean smiled at the compliment, nodding warmly to dismiss her. “Thank you, Jo. If you could see that my brother Samuel, or Ms. Mills in his absence, receives that as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yessir,” Jo confirmed, curtseying down before she headed off up the corridor.

Dean closed the door with a sigh, resting his back to it before he slid his hand down across his face. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to release some of the tension building there, but it was no use. He’d have a bath, he decided; Charlie had told him as he arrived that there was a communal bathing room with a new steam tub that he could use if he so wished, so he gathered his things and headed down the hall. 

Slipping into the warm, tiled room, Dean flipped the sign to Occupied and shut the door.

The bathroom was nothing on the great rooms of London, but it was impressive for a modest Chapterhouse. Hooks lined the walls, where Dean hung his waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt as he slowly shucked them off, before placing his boots and socks up on the bench beneath. His trousers and underthings folded next to his boots, Dean padded barefoot across to the large, deep tub that took up the center of the room. Made mostly of brass, it rested on small, ornate feet and had straight sides, various dials and pressure gauges showing the heat of the steam-warmed water that could fill it at the twist of a lever. 

He set it to run, steam billowing from the long-necked tap that hooked into it from one end, and then busied himself selecting salts and oils from the selection on the table beside the head of the tub. 

Lettersmen were no strangers to wounds, stress, and tight muscles, so there was plenty of astringent relaxation to be found for Dean’s tight neck and back. Some Epsom, some lavender, and some frankincense would do well, he decided, adding them to the small box at the side of the tub which would generate little jets of bubbles and release the infused steam into the water.

Stepping into the tub, Dean sighed with delight and let his shoulders slip down under the water. This case was making him tense and antsy; something about it didn’t feel right, and the creature he was hunting left no clues that he was familiar with. It was frustrating, and he’d been carrying the tension heavily in his muscles. 

His mind drifted as he relaxed and soaped himself, scented steam puffing around his head and across the water, his thoughts moving from the case itself to Castiel.

God, what a beautiful man. So captivating, in so many ways… His company was some of the most charming Dean had experienced, his bluntness and awkwardness with the mores of society utterly appealing to Dean, rather than off-putting as they would be to many. 

Did their lack of personal space, frequent little touches, and lingering looks mean anything to Castiel at all, he wondered? Did they mean what Dean hoped they did?

Dean couldn’t help his body reacting as he dwelled on the man who’d been nagging at his thoughts since the moment he had first stepped into the Novak Studio. 

It felt like an inevitability, the way his length began to plump up beneath his hand as he ghosted his fingers across his head beneath the water. Castiel had strong, large hands, the type that Dean longed to feel grip him, wrap around him, squeeze sounds from him. He’d been blindsided by Castiel’s handsomeness the moment they met, and it was only through determination and distraction that he’d held out this long. 

With a soft sigh, Dean’s imagination provided Castiel’s touch, his deep voice, the way his eyes would widen with arousal when Dean got his hands on him in turn, blue turning dark as Dean took, and gave, exactly what he’d been desiring.

Dean bit down on his lip gently, stifling a soft gasp as he imagined Castiel’s plump lips taking him in, his cock resting on the photographer’s clever tongue, their gazes locked.

What he’d give to be looked at like that… or to look back, on his knees with Castiel’s warmth filling his mouth, his hips rolling and rocking beneath the pads of Dean’s fingers. Dean was an energetic lover, he’d often been told, but there was no feat he wouldn’t perform to hear Castiel moan and pant the way he longed to.

The water Dean reclined in was warm, but the heat building deep in his pelvis was nothing to do with the tub.

Speeding up the movements of his hand, Dean trailed his other hand lower, softly pressing behind his sack and circling on down, his mind full of Castiel above him, around him, inside him.

“Cas!” Dean gasped out, past his bitten lip, past his sense of decency, past every effort at stopping, as he spilled across his hand. His erection peeked above the water as he came, releasing heavy, powerful spurts into the lavender scented steam.

He sunk down beneath the bubbling water to clean himself, rinsing off the sticky evidence of his quickly building guilt. It wasn’t right, to think of Castiel so when he hadn’t directly indicated any interest in such things. But Dean could hardly help it. 

As his heartbeat settled, Dean pushed himself up from the back wall of the brass tub and reached across to release the plug lever and began draining the water. If nothing else, he’d released some of the tension in his muscles, even if his activities had done little to quell his thoughts.

He had an uneasy suspicion that only Castiel himself would be able to silence his mind. 

_Oh stop it, Dean,_ he told himself, rising out of the tub with a great _swoosh!_ and dripping his way toward the towel rack. _Castiel is a De Angelis, of sorts, and a talented and popular man. What do you have to offer him? A dangerous job and undeserved title, no family, no home? Don’t make a fool of yourself._

Dean had dressed in just his shirt and trousers to make his way quietly back to his room. He knew that the Chapterhouse would send a valet at the mere ring of a bell, but he’d never grown used to people fussing about him; he didn’t even like it when Sam did it. So instead, he grabbed up his clothing in the crook of his arm and hurried along the corridor, hoping to make it back without anyone chastising or fretting at him for his lack of propriety.

He made it and lowered himself down into the desk chair, pleased with his minor rebellion. He thought of sleeping, weighing it up against another long night of research. In the end, the thought of Miss Claire being missing and Castiel’s heartbroken reaction was enough to sit Dean up straighter in the seat and have him discard the clothing he held into a heap. He could deal with it later; he had other garments in his trunk.

He’d barely picked up the stack of parchment containing his notes from the goo-testing in the laboratory when the telephone to his left chimed loudly, cutting through the room at a volume at odds with the late hour.

“Winchester,” Dean answered, frowning.

“We have a call from Castiel Novak, sir.”

Ridiculously, Dean felt his cheeks flush instantly. _Don’t be silly, man_, he chastised himself. _He doesn’t know what you’ve been about._

“Go ahead and put him through, thank you,” Dean said calmly.

There was a moment of clicking and whirring, which Dean took to clear his throat and straighten himself so that he sat closer to the mouthpiece of the black and bronze telephone. 

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice seemed even deeper and more rumbling over the line.

“Cas,” Dean responded, unable to help his smile. “How are you doing? Is there any news?”

“No news on Claire,” Castiel admitted softly. “To be honest, it’s been a long day and I—well, a part of me just wanted to… to check in with you before I went abed.”

_Wanted to hear your voice_ seemed the unspoken obvious, but Dean wasn’t about to assume.

“Is there anything I can do to put you at ease? I plan to stay up, in case London calls, or in case there’s any news—”

“You should rest, Dean,” Castiel chastised softly. “Not that I don’t appreciate your diligence. Of course I do. But you mustn’t stretch yourself too far. You’re important too.”

Dean smiled down at the desktop, glad that he didn’t need to hide the slight blush that came to his cheeks at Castiel’s apparent care. “I just want to fix this for you, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel said. After a slight pause, he cleared his throat, and spoke again. “Dean—I realize this is entirely improper and downright rude given the hour, but if there was… if there was something concerning me that I’d like to discuss…”

Dean frowned, pushing his parchments away across the desk. “What’s wrong, Cas?”

“I’d—you’ll probably think it silly, but I don’t want to discuss it over the telephone, and I just… you know what, forget it. I’m being entirely—”

“Hey,” Dean interrupted, as soft as he could. “Stop. Damn correctness and pertinence, Cas. If you have something to say, or even just don’t want to be alone after today, then think nothing more of it. Open the door for me; I’ll get a driver to bring me over immediately.”

“You don’t have to, really…” Castiel said quietly, and Dean could almost hear the flush he liked so much around the edges of his words.

“I want to,” Dean confirmed. “You need me and so, no matter the reason, I’ll be right there.”

Dean hung up without saying goodbye. He rang the porter bell immediately, and set about dressing—of a sort, at least. He grabbed his long black coat and threw it on over the top of his straight trousers and loose white shirt, not bothering with his waistcoat, his belt, not even a cravat or tie—he buttoned the coat, pulled on his boots, and was already halfway to the door when Jo politely knocked.

“Jo—Miss Harvelle,” Dean corrected at the last moment, remembering his manners, though Jo merely responded with a raised eyebrow. “Do you drive the Chatperhouse’s streetcar?”

“I can,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Ed and Harry are usually the ones to drive…”

Dean was stepping out into the hallway even as he responded. “I don’t want to trouble them. Especially as to some this may seem a little…” Dean trailed off, struggling. “Castiel needs, uh, that is, I must go to him and…”

Jo smirked, walking behind him. She didn’t let him pick up his words again, instead giving him a wink as they reached the front desk. “Don’t worry yourself, Dean. I’ll fetch the car around front. I’m telling Charlie though, and you know she’ll have questions in the morning about you disappearing in the middle of the night.”

Dean smiled gratefully, knowing that Jo was right. Perhaps it was improper of him to visit Castiel alone at such an hour, given that they were both men who were known to like other men—or he hoped they were. But it didn’t mean anything. He merely wanted to support his new friend in trying, unsettling times.

Of course. Nothing else. Dean was one hundred percent, most definitely, not secretly hoping for anything else.

The studio was so close that it took Jo only minutes to pull up outside, hopping swiftly out from the front seat of the car to open Dean’s door. As soon as she’d assisted him out, she moved around to the front of the vehicle and began cranking it for the return back to the Chapterhouse. 

“Would you like me to wait, Lord Winchester?” she asked, giving a curtsey.

“It’s Dean… and not at all, Jo. Go and sleep, the walk is short and I’m more than capable of making it alone.”

He inclined his head to her before pushing open the studio door, rapping on it firmly with his fist as he stepped into the hallway. “Cas?” he called, before spotting him standing in the corridor.

“You came quickly,” he said with a small smile.

“Of course.” Dean turned and shut the door firmly behind him, closing the shiny new deadbolts that Castiel must have had installed that afternoon. He turned back to Castiel when he was done, and for just a moment neither spoke, awkward, the air oddly charged.

_For god’s sake, Dean, there’s no one else here. Just give the man a damn hug_, he thought to himself, verging on annoyed at his own hesitance.

But Castiel beat him to it that time, taking two swift steps to close the gap between them and squeezing Dean into a tight, grateful embrace. It wasn’t like it had been earlier in the day, Castiel wasn’t wilting into Dean, his nose wasn’t buried into Dean’s coat or neck, but it was pleasant nonetheless, and lingered far longer than it should have.

“Thank you so much for coming, Dean,” Castiel said beyond Dean’s shoulder.

“Of course, Cas. I should have thought to ask if you had anything you wanted to discuss privately, or if you needed someone here tonight.” Dean loved the way Castiel’s body felt under his hands, the firm planes of his back shifting slightly beneath his layers; Castiel still wore the simple navy day-suit he’d been wearing when Dean last saw him, his coat gone and his tie loose, but his vest still smartly in place along with his jacket. “I apologize for not thinking to come by sooner,” Dean added.

Castiel was smiling as he pulled back, small as it was. “I can look after myself, I just…” he trailed off, his lips still parted, unsure.

“Didn’t want to?” Dean offered, returning Castiel’s smile with a shyness he wasn’t used to feeling.

Castiel nodded and they both gave out tiny, awkward laughs that somehow, from Castiel, seemed utterly endearing. 

“Please,” Castiel said, stepping aside and gesturing for Dean to make his way up the hallway. “Come up to my apartments. Mrs. Harvelle is cooling some bourbon for us and slicing some apple pie as a little late-night treat.”

Dean grinned. “Apple pie?”

The lights were dim as they ascended the narrow stairs that led up from the corner of the gallery, but Dean was certain he could make out a little embarrassment tinging the back of Castiel’s neck ahead of him. 

“You mentioned the other day, when you were eating Ellen’s scones, that you loved them almost as much as apple pie, so I requested that she make one for you,” Castiel admitted.

“You’re a very thoughtful man,” Dean said warmly, following Castiel into the same small parlor they’d shared with Charlie previously.

Two chairs had been pulled up before the fire so that they could chase away the evening chill, and between the arms of the chair an occasional table bore two gently sweating glasses of bourbon and a pastry plate with a whole sliced pie, decorated with curls of apple and cinnamon sticks. Dean’s mouth watered at the sight.

Mrs. Harvelle herself appeared from the other door as Dean settled himself into the chair, curtseying respectfully as she served up two slices of the pie onto delicate plates. “Good evening, Lord Winchester. May I take your coat?”

With his overcoat half unbuttoned, Dean recalled rather belatedly the state in which he’d hurried from the Chapterhouse. “I, uh—” He smiled apologetically as Mrs. Harvelle slid the heavy wool coat from his shoulders, revealing nothing but his trousers and a heavily crumpled white shirt beneath—no belt, no vest, no jacket. His shirt wasn’t even properly tucked. “I left the Letters Chapterhouse in rather a hurry, I was concerned for Castiel after the day’s events and—”

“Quite alright, sir,” Mrs. Harvelle interjected, her voice giving away an amusement her fierce demeanor didn’t quite show. Given their previous encounter, Dean had expected the housekeeper to be a little pricklier about his visiting at such an untoward hour, and barely dressed at that.

Something must have shown in his face, because she offered him a warm smile. “If I may say so, sir, your visit is welcome. I realize you must see me as fusty and old fashioned, but I assure you that the contrary is the case. But my master here”—she shot a fond look across at Castiel, who merely bit into his pie with a wholly feigned innocence—“is very neglectful of his manners and certain elements of propriety. I’ve been at his side long enough that I do what I can to shield him from the gossip, you see, because there’s plenty of it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, taking his plate from her. “So you aren’t such a stickler as you seem, Mrs. Harvelle.”

Castiel snorted. “Hardly.”

She passed him a firm glare. “I just try to make sure that this house retains at least a little semblance of decorum. People have reason enough to look down on Castiel as it is, and I won’t be having that, not on these premises.”

Castiel reached out, smiling gently as he patted the back of her hand. “You look after us all very well, Ellen. Now, it’s very late and I’m capable of pouring a whiskey bottle. You head on back to the kitchen and relax some.”

“I certainly shan’t be looking down on Castiel,” Dean reassured the housekeeper warmly. “I find his ways very refreshing, as I wasn’t born into this level of society myself. It’s freeing. I won’t be wagging my tongue anywhere.”

“Anywhere? Shame,” Castiel commented innocently, biting deeply into Mrs. Harvelle’s fine pie.

Dean choked on his first attempt to taste the pastry. The housekeeper raised an eyebrow at his solid thumping of his chest. “Apologies,” he rasped. “Went down the wrong way.”

“I bet it did,” she said sourly, before shaking her head and heading on out of the room.

Castiel smirked quietly at the fireplace, laughter that he kept silent pulling at his cheeks. “Everything alright there, Lord Winchester?”

“You are the worst kind of man, you know that?” Dean couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m so glad you think so,” Castiel said wickedly. “But I will apologize. It was a crude joke and I certainly didn’t mean to spoil your pie.” 

Oh, but two could play at that game. Dean eyed Castiel calmly, raising his dainty pie plate up a deliberate few inches. He dispensed with the fork, and instead picked up the slice of firm, apple-filled pastry between his thumb and forefinger. He locked his gaze onto Castiel, unblinking. “Oh, I don’t think you spoiled anything. The pie is still delicious.”

He proceeded to wrap his lips around it, taking a gentle, teasing bite before he replaced it on the china, and then slowly licked every last crumb from his fingers, manners be damned.

Castiel held his gaze, not backing down. His lips parted just a fraction as he watched Dean, his eyes widening just the tiniest amount—but staring as they were, Dean saw it. He swallowed hard. Dean reached to pick up the pie again, and Castiel tore his eyes away, suddenly staring at the fireplace with an intensity that was almost comical. 

“The—the case,” Castiel said, suddenly sounding rather desperate. “I mean, the break in. I called you here to talk about the break in.”

_Ha_, thought Dean. _Gotcha_. But he was good, picking up his fork and behaving. He didn’t need to let himself get too wrapped up in the playful photographer’s teasing. He wasn’t convinced there was much seriousness to it, and it wouldn’t do to make a fool of himself, no matter how hard he was quickly falling for the fascinating man. 

“Was there further news?” Dean asked, putting aside his inappropriate thoughts in favor of business. “The police station sent me all of Sergeant Lafitte’s reports and statements—”

“There was something I didn’t tell him,” Castiel interrupted. He sounded sheepish.

“Oh?” Dean questioned, lowering his pie plate to the small table between their armchairs.

“There were some things taken.”

Dean waited, sliding himself forward in his chair. He rested his forearms on his knees, recalling then that he hadn’t even done up the cuffs of his undershirt. With no cufflinks to hand, he began to roll up the sleeves as he patiently waited for Castiel to explain, tucking them behind his elbows.

“Yes. Letters.” Castiel sounded oddly strangled, and Dean looked up to find Castiel gazing at his now-bared forearms. Caught, Castiel hurriedly jerked his gaze back to the fire, that flush that Dean was becoming so fond of heating up the side of his neck at his collar.

Castiel was a strange man, Dean decided, as he could say the most outrageous things without batting an eyelash, but caught in something more innocent, more unintentional, he melted under the scrutiny. 

“Letters?” Dean asked, kindly not mentioning it.

“Yes—from my father. From Charles De Angelis.”

Dean frowned. “Just those, specifically?”

“Yes. We corresponded a little before I met him in London, and in the weeks after, before he disappeared. We spoke of many things, including his intention to change his will since Naomi was gone, and bring me to the Chapterhouse in London to sit with my brothers.”

Something in Dean’s chest was growing increasingly heavy and dark, at odds with the simultaneous lightening of that very same heart whenever he was in Castiel’s presence. It was an odd feeling, but the result was a strangely angering, protective kind of warmth that made him involuntarily clench his fists. “I see,” he managed.

“Dean,” Castiel said very softly, his eyes still on the hearth, the dancing flames causing odd, jagged shadows across his divinely chiseled features. “I realize I must sound like some—”

“No,” Dean interrupted swiftly, rather more snappishly than he intended. “You do not. I will be honest, Castiel, because you deserve nothing less: It is my view that you have nothing to do with these crimes. I believe they were orchestrated deliberately to discredit you, to scare you, and increasingly I believe, to ultimately harm you.”

Castiel nodded, but it was relieved, and he smiled when his eyes drifted from the fire up to Dean. “Well, I feel much safer with you here,” he confessed. “I can hold my own in a fight against a man, but against whatever this is…” Castiel gave a small shudder. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Well, despite his previous behavior, for whatever reason your brother did send me here to solve this and protect you. And I’m glad he did,” Dean admitted. 

Castiel replaced his small china plate on the table next to Dean’s, and picked up one of the glasses of bourbon, leaving a chill ring on the tray. He eyed it silently for a moment, before knocking it back in one—ungentlemanly, but given the day, fairly excusable. 

Dean picked up the second glass to mirror him and already had the rim to his lips when Castiel spoke softly, his attention down in the bottom of his cup.

“Would it be too much for me to ask you to stay?”

“Stay?” Dean echoed, suddenly unsure as to the extent of the question, as he certainly hadn’t voiced his hopes to continue his acquaintance with Castiel beyond this case, at least not yet.

“Tonight, I mean—stay here. I know you should return to the Chapterhouse, but I find myself rather unsettled, and I’d feel safer, I think, if I knew you were close.” The confession brought its own flush and Castiel didn’t look up, as if he was somehow ashamed to feel how he did.

Dean reached across the small space between them, both facing the fireplace as they were, and rested his hand comfortingly atop Castiel’s knee. “Cas,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to feel embarrassment at being scared of this. This isn’t normal; this is supernatural. Have you ever even come across anything like this before, in your life?”

Castiel shook his head, his eyes still downcast.

“And your first personal experience with it is something that has latched on to you in such a way and caused death around you. You’re right to be scared, Cas. Honestly, I think you are holding together admirably.”

Castiel huffed out a small, grateful laugh. “Well, I’m glad you don’t think I’m feeble. I’m finding this whole thing to be rather at odds with making a good impression—there’s such a high chance you would think me either a murderer or some kind of weak, boneless man; neither of which is the idea of me I hoped to give you.”

For some reason, Castiel’s words warmed Dean deep in his chest, and he slid forward in his armchair slightly, giving Castiel’s knee where his hand rested a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

Castiel rubbed the pads of his thumbs around the rim of his whiskey glass, held between his palms, and looked rather sheepish as he looked up, but he did meet Dean’s gaze.

“Castiel Novak,” Dean said formally, with a slight smirk, “please allow me to reassure you that you have made a very thorough impression on me, indeed, and not one bit of it negative. And of course I will stay. It would be remiss of me to leave, having been sent to solve this and protect you, if you want me to be here.”

With a shy smile, Castiel nodded. He released one hand from his whiskey glass, cautiously placing it overtop of Dean’s on his knee and linking their fingers together. His hand was cold from the chilled glass and a little damp, but Dean’s arm tingled and burned right up to his elbow. 

“I’ll call Ellen, then,” Castiel said quietly. “My apartments aren’t as large and fancy as what you’re used to in London, I’m sure, but I do have ample guest quarters.”

“I’m not used to as much as you’d think, as I’ve said. Your apartments here are lovely, Cas,” Dean reminded him.

Their hands lingered a moment longer before Castiel released Dean’s fingers to stand. Looking down at him, he dipped his head, a warmth to his smile that Dean hoped to see again often. “Thank you for staying for tonight, Dean.”

_I’d happily stay every night to keep you safe,_ Dean thought, but of course, he said nothing.


	4. The Most Terrible Phantasms of the Night

_They’ve promised that dreams can come true- but forget to mention that nightmares are dreams, too. – Oscar Wilde_

The screaming got Dean out of bed faster than anything ever had, and he could be pretty fast when he smelled his brother cooking bacon.

In nothing but a borrowed bedroom robe and his underthings, Dean grabbed his flintlock and bandolier and ran, fixing it around himself with practiced speed as he dashed up the corridor toward the sounds of distress.

It was still several hours before dawn, and Dean had been sleeping well in the simple but well-presented bedroom that Mrs. Harvelle had taken him to. It was certainly more pleasant than the rather-too-soft mattress in the Chapterhouse guest offices. 

But Dean was wide awake as he ran; the yell was deep and angry and afraid, and it could only possibly have come from Castiel.

Ellen came dashing out of her room down the hall as Dean unceremoniously slammed open Castiel’s bedroom door.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, his hand immediately going to his hip to find the iron knife that lived on his weapon belt along with an assortment of other standard-issue Lettersman essentials. 

Castiel wasn’t abed, but instead stood near his window, cornered into the bay. He wore a navy house robe rather than just a nightshirt, and Dean wondered if he had been awake rather than sleeping—but he had no time to consider it further, leaping into action to put himself between Castiel and the thing that loomed over him.

It was at least eight feet high, shambling and humped, with very small eyes in its huge, oval face. Its breath was audible as its gray, amorphous body, all limbs and seaweed scent, leaned forward into Castiel’s space.

To his credit, Castiel wielded an electric lamp and a furious expression, holding his own and swiping at the creature even as Dean stood in front of him.

“Cas, are you okay?” Dean asked, his eyes locked on the monster, iron dagger held high. He didn’t know what this was, or what would hurt it, but iron was always a good place to start—it would hurt ghosts and fae and many of the beasts Dean routinely hunted. 

It didn’t seem to hurt this thing, though.

“I’m fine,” Castiel answered, his voice higher and shakier than usual. Neither of them looked at the other, focused on the creature. 

Mrs. Harvelle gave a small scream from the doorway, and Dean held up his empty hand in a simple gesture that she should stay exactly where she was.

The monster lunged forward, diving at them both with an unearthly screech—it was a sound unlike anything Dean could ever recall, sending shudders through him. And then the beast turned and looked to Dean; its eyes opened, and within was the void. 

As the saying went, Dean looked into the void, and the void looked back.

Dean’s every atom cowered with wrongness. But trained as he was, he closed his eyes tight, and stabbed his knife forward. He heard a hiss, telling him he’d hit something—but felt nothing, as if the creature was made of naught but mist and hate.

At his side, Dean could sense Castiel swinging with his makeshift weapon, and the frilly-shaded lamp might have been comical if Dean didn’t fear for his life.

“Cas! Stay back!” Opening his eyes but averting them, Dean stabbed forward again, landing a firm—if not solid—hit on the nebulous, gray, shambling body. 

There was a strange squawk and an unpleasant burbling sound, like air and water being sucked through a drain, and the beast seemed to fold in on itself, sucking down to a single point in midair and merely… vanishing.

Dean and Castiel stood shoulder to shoulder, panting in unison.

“Is it…” Castiel ventured nervously, his voice tight, still holding up the lamp.

“Gone,” Dean said, nodding as he slowly lowered his blade. “For now, at least. Temporarily returned to whatever plane it came from, I believe.”

Castiel seemed to slump with relief, the lamp dropping down to the carpet with a dull thud. “Oh, thank god,” he murmured, sounding utterly exhausted.

“I’m going to telephone the Chapterhouse,” Mrs. Harvelle said weakly from the door. She left without waiting for a response, and so Dean turned his attention to Castiel.

With the creature gone and the adrenaline ebbing out of him, Castiel began to tremble. 

Without hesitation, Dean pulled him in, just as he had done in the booth down in the studio lobby, when Claire had disappeared.

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed, wrapping his arms tight around the other man’s shoulders, even allowing one hand to drift up to tangle boldly in the hair at the back of his neck. “It’s gone. You did great, Cas, you were so brave, I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner—”

Castiel’s hands fisted in the back of Dean’s robe, curling into him shamelessly as he tucked his face into the side of Dean’s neck. His breath came out against Dean’s skin in a long, shaky, puff of hot air. “I’m so glad you stayed,” he whispered.

“I am too,” Dean agreed into Castiel’s hair. He held him silently for a moment, before allowing his own face to tilt to the side, dropping against the top of Castiel’s head in a way that was far too familiar. Castiel only tightened his arms in response, drawing their embrace closer until they pressed up against each other firmly, Dean sliding his hands up and down Castiel’s shoulders in a comforting motion.

Dean’s lips hovered in Castiel’s hair, right above his temple, and it would have been so easy to press a soft, unpresuming kiss into the strands. But what horrible timing that would have been, given everything. So, Dean held back. 

Castiel’s shaking only lasted a moment—he really was far, far braver than he was giving himself credit for, Dean thought—but he didn’t pull back at all, nestling deeper against Dean’s shoulder, if anything.

Dean took a breath. Perhaps a kiss, one of comfort, one of reassurance, just to the side of his head or the top of his crown, wouldn’t be so very unwelcome, he thought. He slid his hands down across the muscled planes of Castiel’s body to his waist, pulling back just enough to twist his head to the side, his lips hovering on nerves just an inch above Castiel’s temple.

Castiel froze as Dean’s hands moved, and Dean lost all thoughts of a kiss, immediately.

As his fingers slid across Castiel’s back and waist, beneath the robe, Dean didn’t feel the soft-but-firm coils of muscle he expected from gazing (rather a lot) at the photographer’s fine physique. Instead there was something hard and boned and bulky in places, the soft rustle of fabric moving over other fabric not what Dean had expected to hear. He was puzzled as his fingers rested on metal ridges, running parallel to Castiel’s body. Was… was Castiel wearing a corset?

Confused, Dean pulled back just a little more. 

Castiel was rigid, and Dean could almost sense him holding his breath, as if he was somehow more afraid than he’d been even when the monster had dived at them.

“Cas?” Dean asked dumbly, not sure if he was right, or even if he was, why Castiel’s demeanor would so suddenly change—surely, he couldn’t think that…

Mrs. Harvelle’s footsteps in the hall beyond the door put paid to an answer, and Castiel drew away from Dean completely, refusing to meet his gaze.

“The Chapterhouse is already rousing Ms. Bradbury,” the housekeeper said, her voice still uncertain, but her actions clear and firm as she stepped into the room and moved over to Castiel’s clothing rack and mirror, dusting off his vest and undershirt with a frown. “We should dress swiftly to receive them; I’m sure they’ll want to see us all.”

Castiel waved a hand dismissively. “And I’m sure they’ve seen worse than my favorite bedroom robe, Ellen,” he said. “I fully intend on reporting to Charlie and then going back to sleep.”

“Castiel!” Mrs. Harvelle chastised, but the look Castiel gave her was hard and frustrated, and she seemed to know better than to question it. “Thank god it’s Ms. Bradbury they’re sending, so at least we’re spared from further scandal.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and stepped away from Dean, out into the corridor and away from the sleeping quarters, calling back over his shoulder, “We can wait in the parlor. Some drinks, perhaps, Ellen?

“It’s the middle of the night,” she rebuked, her voice fading from Dean as she walked out into the corridor behind Castiel. “You’ll be having tea and nothing stronger.”

Dean slept later than he usually would, but then, being awoken in the middle of the night by a strange creature and then spending nearly an hour reporting to Charlie would do that, he figured, so he didn’t worry too much about his manners or whether he’d missed breakfast. There had been no further disturbance or sign of the creature, so as soon as Charlie had been updated and Dean had sampled the gray tar that the shadowy creature had once again left across the floor of Castiel’s room, Mrs. Harvelle had cleaned up and ushered everyone back to bed. Castiel had been mostly silent, not meeting Dean’s eyes while they gave statements and cleared the floor.

Once he rose, he found that Mrs. Harvelle had cleaned and pressed the shirt and trousers he’d worn beneath his coat the night before, and next to them was a simple black vest, with a matching jacket, cravat and belt. He was being told to borrow them and wear them, he assumed, so as not to cause more ruckus with his inappropriate attire.

Dean smiled in amusement, dressing himself as he was wont to do. He finished off his shoulders and his jacket front with the stiff, horsehair brush that the guest room provided, and eventually surmised—from peering into the aged, slightly mercurial mirror next to the dresser—that he would pass muster.

He moved out into the hallway, and quickly oriented himself to where he believed the kitchen to be.

The apartments were very quiet, and all the bedroom doors were shut—surely, he wasn’t awake before everybody?

But no, Mrs. Harvelle was in the kitchen, already warming bread and piling hot sausages and meats to make a simple spread for Dean.

“Good morning, Lord Winchester,” she greeted him cheerily as if nothing had happened—as if they hadn’t been woken by a specter in the night. _What a woman_, Dean briefly admired. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Harvelle,” he replied, inclining his head. “Is Castiel still asleep?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. He woke early—if in fact he slept at all—and headed straight down to his private studio.”

“Oh,” Dean said. He felt a little discomfited, like perhaps Castiel was avoiding him or he’d upset the man somehow. It was unpleasant, but the housekeeper hustled him away from the kitchen door before he could dwell much on it.

“Lords do not belong hovering in kitchen doors. Go sit yourself in the dining room, and I’ll feed you momentarily.”

“Yes, Mrs. Harvelle,” Dean said with a small grin, wondering how much fire she’d give him if he dared disagree. He didn’t dare. 

Breakfast wasn’t a thrilling affair, alone as he was in Castiel’s small dining room, but the food was just to Dean’s taste, simple and hearty and leaning more toward meat and grease than any new-age finery. He was most pleased with it and made sure to tell the housekeeper so when she came to clear his plates.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, m’lord,” she replied, still keeping to formal titles but with a much warmer tone than when he’d first arrived, Dean noticed. “Now,” she continued, “when you head downstairs and try to get Castiel to let you into his private studio—which I know you’re about to go do; I wasn’t born yesterday so let’s not dance about it—please try and persuade the man to leave his camera lens and come up here and eat some kind of breakfast.”

Dean parted his lips but had nothing to deny her assumption with. “Alright, Mrs. Harvelle. I’ll try.”

“He always retreats behind his lenses when he’s upset,” she confided quietly, despite there being no one else to hear. “I know there’s no use me trying to draw him out, but… perhaps you can.”

“Of course, I’ll do my best.” Dean gave the housekeeper a gentle smile. Despite his first impressions of the woman, he could tell now that she loved her master fiercely, more like family than an employer, and that her prickliness was more to do with protecting the careless, wayward photographer than any true care for the rules. “You are very good to him, Ellen, I hope you don’t mind me saying. He is lucky to have you.”

“That’s Mrs. Harvelle to you, sir,” she answered with a twinkle in her eye, before clanking her way out of the door with the plates. 

She had been right about his intentions to go to the studio, of course—Dean excused himself from the dining table, untucking his legs from beneath the clothed table and smoothing down the sleeves of the jacket he’d been so politely bullied into wearing. He felt slightly insufficient within it, despite usually having no qualms about his own form. Castiel’s shoulders were a little wider than his, and it showed in the jacket, his chest a little more muscled, leaving the shape a little looser on Dean than the current fashion dictated. But Dean wasn’t the kind of man to be terribly concerned about his dress, so he shrugged and thought that perhaps he’d try and lift a few more weights during his reluctant sessions in the Men of Letters gymnasium. 

Down at the bottom of the stairs in the quiet gallery, Dean paused. He’d never been into Castiel’s private studio; he knew where the door was from his tours of the building, but he’d never been invited in. Somehow it felt like a big deal, and he hoped he wasn’t about to make Castiel angry. 

Moving across to the door on the far side of the room, Dean raised his hand to knock. Quiet music played through the heavy oak door, something classical and soothing that Dean didn’t know the name of. He was uncertain, but he wouldn’t allow himself to turn around. 

He couldn’t not check if Castiel was alright. If he’d somehow offended him, he wanted to apologize, and if something about their moment in Castiel’s bedroom in the middle of the night had upset him, well then Dean would apologize for that, too. They couldn’t be at odds, not with an unidentified creature on the loose.

He would speak to Castiel, he reasoned, make his apologies, and then head straight back to the Chapterhouse to get his brother on the telephone, and find out his thoughts on the creature.

Dean knocked. The soft music stopped.

The quiet on the other side of the door stretched for long enough that it became clear that Castiel wasn’t merely walking to the door, he was deciding whether to open it at all.

The thought made Dean’s heart sink down in his chest, not that it had any right to. 

He was about to knock again before giving up, when the door cracked open. 

It was dim within, and Castiel’s face seemed pale in the light that spilled in from the larger gallery where Dean stood. “Hello, Dean,” he said quietly, his deep voice almost sheepish as it rumbled through the gap. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, Cas, you can—by talking to me, please,” Dean said pointedly, giving him an encouraging smile. “I feel like I’ve offended you somehow and I surely didn’t mean to.”

“No, no—I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel shook his head, immediately sounding apologetic. “I don’t want you to think that. I’m not the one who should be offended.” He stepped back, opening the door with a nervousness that Dean couldn’t understand. 

_He’s not the one who should be offended?_ Dean was puzzled. He’d certainly not discovered anything he should be offended about.

Dean paused before stepping across the threshold and into the studio. For whatever reason, he was under the impression that this studio was somehow very personal, and that Castiel rarely allowed people within. “Is this—do you want me to come in?” 

Castiel nodded shyly, all his flirtation and bluster from their earlier encounters gone, at that moment. He looked edgy and uncertain, but he waved Dean inside nonetheless. “Yes, please—take a seat. There’s something I should show you.”

Within the studio it was almost dark, lit only by an oil lamp at the table where Dean assumed Castiel had been sitting. Had he been developing, Dean wondered? No—he knew that the building had a special room for that, and he understood the process to be somewhat drippy and messy, so surely Castiel wouldn’t do it in the studio itself? His thoughts were proved correct as Castiel closed the door behind them.

He stepped up to the desk and shut off the lamp, plunging them momentarily into darkness. The room smelled strangely of paint and wax, the sense of it suddenly sharpened when Dean’s vision momentarily became null and void.

Confused, Dean stood stock-still, until suddenly a warm, shaky feeling hand found his.

“Come with me,” Castiel said, tugging gently at his hand. 

Dean was too enchanted with the feel of Castiel’s fingers twisting into his own to make any response. Castiel moved along the wall and then flipped a switch; small overhead spotlights, each made with a tiny Eddison bulb, brightened the room softly. Each one focused on a print, or cluster of prints, along the walls of the room. It was like a mini-gallery, like the one outside—and yet wholly different.

These photographs were certainly not ones that would hang in public. 

Once he’d pulled Dean across to the first wall of photographs, Castiel stepped back from him, letting go of his hand, remaining quiet while he looked.

Dean was a worldly man like any other; he’d seen photographs like this before. Every man had, surely, even if only accompanied by private whispers and giggles in school dormitories and at college hall parties. There was something anomalous about seeing them displayed there like that, so openly. It was an eye into a lifestyle Dean had never had anything to do with, himself.

The first picture that his eyes fell upon showed a woman, nude apart from the ropes that tied her, her body held in a curved, sensuous position, breasts on full display, her legs spread and held up from the ankle. It was obscene by many standards, Dean knew that, but it was also beautiful—the lines of it, the lighting, the rapture in her expression; this was a piece of art, and his staring was little to do with the eroticism of it. He moved on.

It took Dean a moment to understand the second picture—he supposed it must be some particular fetish he had never come across, but he had to admit it was extremely aesthetically pleasing. A man, a little older than himself, Dean would guess, kneeled on the floor with his back arched over like a bridge, leaning back with rivers of color running down his chest and across his thighs. It was wax, Dean realized, dotting rainbows of color onto the white floor. He was fully erect, his length dripping with as many colors as the rest of him, and Dean couldn’t help but swallow harshly.

“You—you take these pictures?” Dean asked, his voice sounding distant as his feet moved him without permission, stepping across to the next photograph; two women, wrapped together, bound with ropes and—oh sweet, holy Jesus, that was Charlie and Jo. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and moved across to the next picture without hesitation; he could appreciate the feminine form just fine, but there were some things he had no desire to see. 

“I do,” Castiel answered. He stayed behind Dean, a step or so back, keeping quiet while Dean looked his fill.

The pictures continued in every spotlight. From sweet and soft—men kissing, streaks of ink on their skin spelling out words of devotion, to raunchy and obscene—a woman being impaled by what Dean could only reason was a brass, mechanical penis of some kind, Castiel covered it all.

He felt Castiel hesitate behind him as he came up to the final wall, falling back just a little further.

These pictures were of Castiel.

_He must have used a timer, _Dean thought oddly calmly. The pictures of Castiel were magnificent, if startling. Castiel sprawled in a chair, masturbating, a pair of black women’s heeled boots climbing his calves. Castiel bent over forward, ineffably flexible, his palms flat on the floor with perfectly straight legs, some kind of toy or plug emerging from between his rear cheeks at a beautifully obscene angle. Castiel stood in front of a mirror, angled so the camera could not be seen, dressed in a beautiful blue corset and bustle, his eyes darkened, the results of his own orgasm splattering the front of the fabric. The most amazing, to Dean, the one that drew his eyes the most, was a truly fantastical piece—a scene where Castiel was entirely nude, all except for a tight black under-corset and heels, with a gorgeous pair of brass, clockwork wings at his back. There were a series of pictures, each with the wings in a slightly different position—put in a zoetrope device and spun, Dean assumed, he would look to be flying. He had himself proudly in hand, his face somehow serene as he firmly gripped his thick, beautiful cock.

He felt Castiel take another step back—and immediately Dean darted his hand out, finding Castiel’s arm and taking his hand again, as they had been just a moment ago, stopping him from fleeing any further.

“They’re beautiful, Cas,” Dean said honestly, his eyes still fixed on the photographs.

Castiel remained silent.

Dean turned then, and moved to face him, doing his best to smile and look reassuring, despite the small amount of shock that still rolled in his gut. “Why would you think I would be offended by this? I’ll admit, I’m not worldly enough to be familiar with everything you have here, but Cas—this is art, all of it. Even someone with my lack of culture can see the beauty in these photographs Cas, in the composition alone—”

“That’s—” Castiel interrupted suddenly, his eyes on the floor, before catching himself. He took a breath and tried again; watching his hand linked with Dean’s, which Dean had still not let go. “Thank you. That’s lovely of you to say Dean and I’m… I’m glad that you don’t seem to be judging me for my art. But it’s not only art, for me.”

Suddenly, Dean was clear, knowing where this was going. He turned slightly, looking back at the pictures, raising the hand he wasn’t desperately clutching at Castiel’s with. He rested it very gently on the nearest print, allowing one finger to trail across the corset and boots pictured. He knew he shouldn’t touch, but he simply had to.

“You enjoy this,” Dean said, firm, confident in his understanding. His eyes did one final sweep over the photographs, taking in again the proliferation of traditionally feminine garb—before moving back to Castiel. “That’s why you lost your head, in the night. You were wearing a corset beneath your robe and you were afraid—you thought that the idea of you dressing that way would offend me. Or that I’d judge you or make fun of you.”

Castiel looked very small, his eyes remaining downcast. But when he spoke, his voice was strong. “If that is the case, then you can leave, please. I have spent enough of my life being who other people wish me to be, I won’t change for anyone. If I’ve offended you, I’m not sorry.”

Dean reached across and hooked his forefinger under Castiel’s chin, guiding him to look upward. “Cas,” he said softly. “I am offended. But only that you would think so little of me.”

Castiel blinked slowly, his mask of determined indifference slowly melting as he took in Dean’s reaction. “You don’t think it’s…” he trailed off, struggling with his words.

Letting his fingers slide from Castiel’s chin to the side of his neck, Dean took a step forward until they were sharing breath, far too close for any misunderstanding. “Castiel Novak, no matter what you choose to wear, or how you present yourself, you are beautiful to me.” 

With widening eyes, Castiel’s held breath came out in a rush. Dean was drowning in blue and he knew—he just felt it—that Castiel was about to finally succumb and kiss him, and to allow them to begin whatever this would become.

He leaned to meet him—

“Castiel!” Charlie’s distinctive voice came from the hallway beyond the main studio, shouting through the door. “Cas! We… we found Claire.”

It didn’t sound like a joyful announcement.

The chill that had settled over the Brighton seafront the day before had remained and deepened, the wind cutting the tops of icy waves into dark peaks. The air was gloomy and gray, and it wasn’t just the feeling between the small group assembled on the sand, Dean thought—something was not right here, the usually bright town suffering from an atmospheric melancholy, as something Dean could only crudely comprehend began to ooze through from beyond. He knew not where, but he was confident of _beyond_ and confident of _wrong_. The creature was getting stronger, its hold on this world becoming more robust as it passed further through the veil toward them. Dean had seen enough in his life to theorize its nature with ease, though he knew no specifics of this particular horror.

The gathered people on the shore shivered, but none of them left, all with roles to fulfill. Castiel stood a little way off to Dean’s left, and then scattered about here and there were various local policemen that Dean didn’t know—though he did recognize Sergeant Lafitte and gave him a polite nod. Also dotted across the beach were Charlie, Jo and another porter, and a much older, regal-looking black gentleman who Dean by then knew to be Elder Joshua, the Lettersman in charge of the South East England Chapter. He was quiet and thoughtful, wise and peaceful, and Dean had liked him upon their first meeting.

They all circled around a tarp that was shielding the body brought from the sea. 

Elder Joshua had an electronic spectrometer in hand, scanning the body before him for traces of stray electromagnetic fields or inconsistencies in its own magnetism. He was clearly also Gifted; his other hand raised and glowing, checking for magics with Charlie by his side, observing. Dean would have bet his last shilling that they would find nothing.

Dean had already taken samples of the gray tar that covered poor Miss Claire, though it felt ultimately pointless; he already knew they would match the other vials he had collected, from the photographs, the floor of the booth where Claire had been taken, and then from Castiel’s bedroom early that morning. 

Dressed in a heavy coat and bonnet to shield her from the chill, Charlie approached Dean, her heeled boots crunching across the pebbled sand as she came to his side.

“It’s getting worse, then,” she said quietly.

“Yes. It’s killing people unrelated to the photographs now,” Dean agreed.

“But still related to Castiel in some manner.”

Dean nodded, his eyes on the tossing sea, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. 

“Have you considered that you, too, might be at risk?” Charlie asked carefully. 

Dean raised an eyebrow skeptically, but he said nothing, his eyes drawn by Sergeant Lafitte and a skinny, acne-pocked young officer who appeared to be tailing him and assisting. They moved across to the tarp, preparing to have Miss Claire moved to the mortuary. Everyone was staring at them.

“You know, I am sure, that Castiel is… excessively fond of you, Dean,” Charlie added.

With a coordinated lift, Lafitte and the young officer—possibly even an intern, Dean would guess—began moving Claire up the beach. Dean’s stomach was hardened to such things after a life in the Letters, but even so, he took care to remove his hat and lower it respectfully below his chest as they passed.

“I’m sure Cas is fond of many people,” Dean said very carefully, his voice low, looking back up to Charlie when they were alone again.

“No, he isn’t.”

Dean blinked across at her, confused. That wasn’t the impression he’d had. 

“Sure, he has plenty of _friends_,” Charlie stressed. “He has too much character to not eventually find his own kind. But he doesn’t let people in the way he has with you, not right out of the gate. You’re special.”

Still not sure where Charlie was going with it, Dean nodded slowly. “We are friends, yes. I… I am very fond of him, also. If that puts me at risk, so be it. Perhaps it will help us, even, if I can draw the creature out.”

Green eyes rested very intensely on him. “Curious you should say so. I have a telegram in my pocket instructing something very similar.”

“What?” Dean turned his back to the rest of the beach and focused solely on Charlie. “New orders have come in?”

She nodded. “Elder Michael believes that we haven’t made enough progress. The esteemed Lord De Angelis wishes for us to”—she made little air quotes—“push the case harder.”

Dean scowled—that was not the proper way to work. Sure, Dean had thrown caution to the wind many a time, he was known for it, but slow and safe was the company line, and always had been.

“I don’t know that Castiel will be in any mood for baiting traps today though, Dean,” Charlie said sadly, turning to watch as Castiel stood on the beach, still staring down at the impression in the sand where Miss Claire had lain. “Can I trust in you to get him home?”

“Of course,” Dean said hastily, nodding. “If he wishes me to stay and monitor the studio, I will. Otherwise, let’s give him today. We can reconvene about the case tomorrow morning.”

Charlie nodded, her smile warm as she reached across to squeeze at Dean’s arm. “Thank you, friend. Now, go get your boy and take him home.” With an uncalled-for wink, she spun on heel and bustled her way across the sand, back toward the under-construction pier.

Dean spluttered at her phrasing, but ultimately ended up smiling. He could see why she and Castiel were such good friends. He shook hands with the Sergeant and Elder Joshua as they departed, and made his way across to Castiel, where he stood in the same spot, immobile.

“Cas?” Dean ventured softly, raising one hand to his shoulder, resting it there familiarly, his thumb subtly stroking at the seam of Castiel’s navy wool coat. “I believe everyone is done. We can go now.”

Castiel nodded drearily, his eyes gliding out to the horizon, his own blue gazed dulled and almost matching the tumultuous ocean. 

Dean squeezed gently. “Will you let me walk you home? Or I could call Ed and we could take the Chapter streetcar—”

“Walking will be fine,” Castiel said, so quietly Dean almost missed it. 

Letting his hand slip down from Castiel’s shoulder, Dean nodded, and they both turned up the beach to head toward the road. For much of the street, they walked in comfortable, if mournful, silence. But eventually, as the passers-by, gawkers, and newspaper reporters that had flocked to the beach edge faded into the background behind them and the pavement freed up, Castiel began to speak.

“Claire was an orphan, you know.” 

Dean nodded. “Mrs. Harvelle mentioned as much.”

“Like me. Or, like I felt I was, for a long time.” Castiel’s eyes didn’t look at Dean, gazing ahead listlessly as he walked. “I wanted her to grow up with a family, even if it was just Ellen and I. Not a conventional family, perhaps, but as I’ll never have children of my own, it seemed natural to take her in. We helped each other, I suppose. She liked to earn her keep—she was always strong willed, an adolescent already when we met. But Ellen always said she loved us far more than she let on.”

Dean smiled crookedly. “Such is the way of adolescents, usually.” 

Castiel walked on, quiet again. They’d reached the end of the street, his studio in sight, before he spoke again. “I’m doing my best not to feel responsible for her death. But I’ll admit, I’m not entirely succeeding.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Dean said gently. “That’s the way of things when someone we care about is gone. Logic doesn’t always win in such situations.”

“You speak like you know,” Castiel observed.

“Indeed. Many times over.”

“Does it get better?”

Dean shook his head, determined to be honest. “Not really. But you learn to carry on. It becomes easier, occupies less of your head, as it must. But it takes time.”

Castiel seemed to appreciate Dean’s truth, and he managed a smile as he stopped to unlock the Novak Studio door.

“Cas?” Dean asked. “Would you like me to stay? Watch the studio, anything.”

Tucking the heavy iron key back into the breast pocket of his vest, Castiel shook his head. “No, thank you. Honestly, I think I’d rather be alone today.”

“Whatever you need,” Dean said. “I’m nearby, for anything. Don’t hesitate.” He stepped back onto the pavement, raising his hand to give a small wave as Castiel stood in the doorway of his home. He didn’t expect a reply from Castiel, but he was taken by surprise as the other man moved forward, putting one foot back out onto the pavement, and lightly grabbed Dean’s arm.

Tugging Dean gently closer, Castiel tilted his head up until his breath hit Dean’s skin. “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully, before pressing his lips softly against the stubble of Dean’s cheek.

Dean’s toes curled, and his neck flushed, but as ever, it wasn’t the time. Lifting his hand to drift his fingers across the warm place where Castiel’s mouth had been, he tried to keep his smile appropriate, despite the way the corners of his mouth tugged desperately upward. “Anytime,” he managed.

Smiling knowingly, Castiel stepped back inside and closed the door.


	5. Tell the Audient Void

_The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck. – R. W. Emerson_

The laboratory at the Manchester Street Men of Letters Chapterhouse was well equipped, Dean had been glad to discover, and so for the rest of the day he threw himself back into analyzing every piece of information he could find about the creature that had begun as a mere shadow in the corner of some photographs but was now looming large and leaving the frame. 

The assistant technician at the laboratory, a fascinating young man named Kevin who spoke seven languages and seemed to have a full set of telescopic magnifying eye glasses permanently glued to his head, was immensely helpful. He was a little snarky and short tempered, but get him excited about something, Dean found, and he’d run around the Chapterhouse like a whippet. 

Dean ran every test he knew of on the samples and spoke at length to his brother on the telephone to discuss possible magical experiments that could be done to glean more information about their origin. But they came up with nothing; every test was nil, nothing, void.

And Dean grew increasingly concerned that Void _was _the answer.

“Tell me what you know of the Void beyond this world, Sam,” Dean asked into the laboratory telephone, goggles in place, reaching across to steady a glass testing vial for Kevin. 

“Ro always said it was the black space beyond all that we could see, another realm entirely. We’ve seen occasional creatures leak through before—remember that nasty Cthulhu business in the mid-Pacific? Took a coalition of the Americans and the Brits to keep that one under wraps,” Sam recalled.

Dean hummed thoughtfully. Rowena McLeod was one of his brother’s mentors, and one of the most powerful sorceresses in the country. If anyone knew, it should be her. “Perhaps contact her with the descriptions, get the photographs on the next post to Scotland.”

“Alright, I will,” Sam said, sounding distracted as if he was reading.

“Did you hear anything else from Gabriel?”

“We met last night. He’s concerned, Dean, I can tell. But he wouldn’t tell me of what, and he cut our meeting short.”

“Gabe? Cut short time with you? That’s unheard of.” Dean wasn’t teasing, that time. “Keep an eye on him, Sam.”

“Lord Winchester,” Kevin interrupted them. “If you suspect those kinds of magics, then we should run your samples again and measure for the same black particles that were found on the ships that originally ran aground in the Pacific, back during the that Eldritch mess.”

“Of course! Yes, Kevin!” Dean exclaimed, clicking his fingers. He quickly turned back to the telephone mouthpiece. “This kid here is brilliant, Sam. You should get Ms. Mills to have him called up the Research Library in London, he’s far too smart to be stuck in this laboratory. Get him up there with the big guns.”

Sam laughed. “I’ll make mention of it.”

Kevin preened. 

“How long will that take?” Dean asked, eager, turning to Kevin.

“To test for the particles? At least twelve hours,” he admitted apologetically.

Dean sighed rather dramatically, but there was naught to be done. “Well, let’s get started then. I have an idea how to progress the case otherwise, but I can do little until I can consult with Castiel in the morning—so let’s get going.”

Nodding, Kevin gathered up the remaining samples, and moved down the long wooden table in the lab to begin setting up while Dean said his goodbyes to Sam.

“You’ll let me know if there’s any developments?” Dean said.

“Of course I will,” Sam said. “On the creature or on Gabriel. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Sammy. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re pretty worried about this Cas guy, aren’t you,” Sam observed.

“It’s my job,” Dean replied automatically, before catching himself. This was Sam. His brother could, and would, sniff out the truth, even from several hundred miles away. “And even if it’s more than that, what of it?”

“Nothing at all, Dean. Just glad to see you growing up a bit,” Sam confessed, and Dean could hear his smug grin through the line.

“Bitch,” Dean muttered, low.

“Jerk,” Sam threw back with a laugh, before he disconnected.

The door of the Novak Studio was shut when Dean decided to call the next morning. He hoped that at least if Castiel was not ready to receive anyone, he could ask Mrs. Harvelle if she might have him contact Dean when he felt able to get back to the case—they were, as much as Dean hated to think it, on rather a red timescale; who knew when, or where, the creature would strike next. Perhaps they had wounded it, in Castiel’s bed chamber that night, but Dean wasn’t fool enough to think they’d seen the last of the thing.

He tried the large brass door knocker first but decided after waiting a moment that the banging would only be heard if someone happened to be downstairs in the gallery. Looking about, he soon spotted a bell-pull to the side of the door. Tugging it hopefully, he waited. 

When the door opened, Castiel’s untamed dark hair poked around the edge atop a welcoming smile. “Dean,” he said, nodding briefly.

“Why Castiel,” Dean said, dramatic but quiet. “It is most unseemly to be opening your own front door.”

Castiel gave a full-body eye roll as he pulled the door open. “God forbid, I shouldn’t use my arms or feet,” he said with a slight smirk.

“Castiel!” Mrs. Harvelle’s voice came barking out from further down the hallway. “Stop opening the front door like this is some kind of tavern or house of ill repute.”

“Ellen,” Castiel observed dryly, ushering Dean inside, “if my studio was a brothel I would earn a lot more money, I assure you.”

Her tutting and fussing at his flippant response carried all the way down the hall, making Dean smile. Closing the door behind himself, Dean turned his attention back to Castiel. 

The photographer was a little disheveled, wearing a shirt and vest but no jacket or tie, his trousers neatly pressed but no shoes upon his feet; Dean was momentarily enchanted by the sight of bare toes peeking from beneath his hems. When Dean looked closer to his face, he smiled warmly. 

“I can see you examining me like I might crumble,” Castiel chastised gently. “But I assure you, I’m in one piece. Not the best I’ve been, for sure. But I won’t fall to dust just yet, I promise.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Dean said honestly. Would it be too much, odd sounding, presumptuous, Dean wondered, if he was to tell Castiel that he’d missed him, despite their time apart being less than a full twenty-four hours? It would make him sound needy and mad, he was sure, but it was also true. Just in case, he said nothing of it, opting for news of the case instead. “I have the technician at the laboratory monitoring some new tests on the samples, and my brother is contacting a powerful sorceress in Scotland who may have greater knowledge of this kind of spirit, or monster, or beast, whatever it may be.”

Castiel gave a firm nod, setting his shoulders bravely. “Excellent. I will try and be of whatever assistance I can, Dean. With Claire”—he swallowed harshly but continued—“gone, I find myself more set than ever on ending this horror.”

“Of course,” Dean agreed. “In this instance, I think vengeance is a fine motivator.”

Castiel moved along the corridor deeper into the studio, heading toward the stairs that led up to his apartments. “In which case, then, what would you have me do, Dean? How can I assist you?” 

“Well,” Dean said, following Castiel as he moved up the stairs toward his parlor, “I have… an idea.”

_A terrible idea, _Dean thought.

There must have been something in his voice giving him away, because when Castiel reached the top landing of the stairs, he looked back at Dean and gave him a searching look. 

“It is mid-morning, I’m aware, but is this going to be a tea conversation, or a bourbon conversation?” he asked.

_I should have gotten myself ungentlemanly drunk before I even came, _Dean considered. He opened his mouth to respond that tea would be fine, but hesitated. Perhaps…

Castiel raised his eyebrows slightly, both together. “Well then,” he said when Dean took a moment to respond. “Bourbon it is.”

“You know I don’t like it when you drink before lunch, Castiel.” Mrs. Harvelle’s voice came from further down the hallway.

Depending on how early or late in the day it was, a housekeeper in a troubled dwelling such as the apartments above the Novak Studio was either a comforting angel or a moving device of war. Dean beheld Mrs. Harvelle, charging out of the kitchen and down the corridor toward them, and decided that at this hour of the morning, she must be the latter.

“Lord Winchester—” she began, pausing only to curtsey.

“Dean, please Mrs. Harvelle, Dean.”

“Improper,” she snapped, a dismissive hand waving away the very notion, yet again. “Cas, will you open the gallery today?” she questioned.

Dean found himself being hustled unceremoniously up the cramped hallway. “Oh, so he gets to be Cas, but I need to carry my ‘Lord’ like it’s a ball and chain?”

“He has no title for me to call him by, and more to the point, I changed that boy’s bottom half as a baby. Now, Castiel—the studio?”

Castiel stood in the parlor watching them both, his amusement barely concealed. “Not today, Ellen. Dean will have my attention today.” 

Mrs. Harvelle flapped her hands at Castiel’s smirk and turned to pour the mentioned bourbon for them. “You’ll be the death of me,” she muttered, but Dean could see the twinkle in her eye where, at first acquaintance, he had not. 

Once the housekeeper had poured them both a measure of bourbon, which Dean took from her with far more relief than he was proud of, the two men settled down in the armchairs before the unlit fireplace. 

Castiel watched quietly for a moment as Dean nervously fingered the rim of his glass.

“What is wrong, Dean?” he asked quietly. “You’re not usually so tense with me, in our acquaintance.” He leaned in toward Dean, resting his forearms on his knees so they angled toward one another. “Surely your idea for the case can’t be causing you so much stress?”

Dean gave a low chuckle, before drawing his glass up to his lips and throwing back the drink, polite sips and early hours be damned. Castiel watched him calmly, sipping much more slowly on his own brown liquor in turn.

“My employer—that is, your brother Michael—has sent word to the Chapterhouse that he is displeased with the progress on the case.” Dean eventually began.

Castiel frowned deeply but didn’t interrupt him.

“He is urging us to make efforts to draw the creature out, to engage it.”

“Deliberately? He… he wants us to set a trap for it?” Castiel questioned carefully, his knuckles whitening on his glass, but his chin staying high, brave as ever.

Dean nodded slowly. He shifted uncomfortably in the plush, high-backed armchair he occupied. “Yes. And I had an idea about how we could do that, without endangering any more innocent people.”

Castiel waited, prompting him after a moment when Dean didn’t expound on his statement at all. “Dean?”

“I, uh—” Dean cleared his throat roughly, his eyes on his empty glass, rolling the dregs around the bottom in tiny droplets. “—I thought perhaps you could photograph me.”

Castiel was silent, and Dean opened his mouth to speak again, about to babble something self-deprecating, anything to break the horrendous moment he’d somehow created.

“How?” Castiel suddenly said, before Dean could think of a way to steer them off course. 

When Dean looked up to Castiel, the photographer was staring at him intently. He looked a little nervous, that was true, but his vivid gaze was unflinching and dark.

“I mean,” Castiel clarified quietly. “How exactly would you like me to photograph you? After all there are… several ways, that I could—”

“I wouldn’t presume to—”

“Dean,” Castiel said more firmly, leaning forward so that he was barely perceptibly in Dean’s space. “Please answer me clearly… for both our sakes. How would you like me to photograph you?”

Dean’s tongue darted out without permission, moistening his lips as if he was somehow too parched to speak. As if he was similarly thirsty, the room suddenly a desert, Castiel’s eyes followed it, and he spoke again, his voice lower, gravel and bourbon and command.

“Is this a plan, Dean? Or a proposition?”

His boldness rising to meet Castiel’s darkened, interested eyes, Dean let out a slow breath before he carefully responded. “Could it be both?”

Castiel’s breath seemed to hold for a moment as he was totally still, and Dean’s heart stopped along with it—but then he slowly nodded. “Yes, Dean. I’d like that.”

Once in his private studio, Castiel had been a consummate professional—and Dean had actually appreciated it, as he found that Castiel’s warm but businesslike manner was putting him at ease and made sure that he didn’t regret his crazy idea.

But Castiel had ideas of his own, it seemed.

Dean found himself in a small dressing room off to the side of the wood-paneled private studio, the door hidden away in the corner behind Castiel’s desk. It was simple and uncluttered, with a chair for his clothes and a house robe hanging behind the door for him to cover himself with when he was ready. He took a deep breath, looking down at the garment he had in hand. 

He wasn’t sure if this was mere artistic vision, or if Castiel wished to see Dean presented in such a way just for his own pleasure, but in the dim, quiet light of the dressing room, Dean found that he strangely didn’t mind either way. Castiel had provided him with ladies’ undergarments of soft silk. They were in the newer style, legless pantaloons which were meant to be worn with a modest corset at least; but Dean would wear them alone, concealing barely anything.

The feel of them against his skin, though… the way they shifted softly across him as he moved, gliding over his most intimate places, was enough alone to begin a perk of interest. They were a soft green silk, edged with the prettiest white lace, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if Castiel picked them out from the huge trunks of props and costumes that he had in the back because they matched his eyes. As if he’d thought about it; as if he’d wanted Dean like this all along.

But perhaps Dean was reading too much into it, he tried to insist to himself. They had a job to do here, after all. His loaded flintlock and bandolier out on the desk, and the iron knife he’d provided Castiel with, were harsh evidence of that. This wasn’t just about the way Dean’s stomach was turning over or the way his heart was thumping, imagining Castiel’s eyes on him when he emerged from the dressing room. This was work, he reminded himself sharply. Even if he was now certain that they both had high hopes it might become something else.

Taking a deep breath, Dean pulled on the provided robe and secured it as modestly as he could, before stepping back into the studio.

He didn’t know exactly why he was so nervous; his work kept him in excellent shape. Perhaps his fondness for pie caused him to be a little softer in the middle than he would be otherwise, but he was confident that his body passed muster well enough in most people’s eyes. It wasn’t that. But somehow, the idea of standing almost nude before Castiel gave him palpitations.

“Dean.” Castiel smiled reassuringly as he emerged and gestured to the space he’d created in the middle of the studio. “Come and sit down.”

There was a rich purple chaise before one of the simple, oak-paneled walls, unadorned so that it drew no eye, making Dean the entire focus. He could feel the emerald silk cupping him softly as he walked over to the seat. He eyed the velvet chaise, trying to work out what he’d look like, sprawled across it in this clothing—or lack of clothing. What would Castiel see? Would he like it?

Still holding his simple navy robe around himself, Dean pushed the thoughts aside and lowered himself down to the edge of it. “What would you like me to do, Cas?” he asked.

From behind the camera, set up on a tripod in front of the seat, Castiel gave him a tranquil, understanding smile. “Calm down, to start with.”

“I’m fine,” Dean lied.

Castiel gave him a knowing look. He tweaked a couple more knobs and twisted a few more dials on the huge, complicated camera that Dean could only admire without understanding, then left it to move around and stand in front of Dean.

“Stand up for a moment,” he said quietly. 

Dean obeyed wordlessly, and once he was on his feet, Castiel was right there; right in front of him, in his space, only inches between them. His breath caught, and his heart pounded. 

_This is really happening. I’m really about to—_

“Look at me, Dean,” Castiel commanded softly. 

Dean did.

For a long moment, Castiel studied Dean’s face. Dean wasn’t sure if he was taking some kind of artistic eye to the angles, working out how to frame them on his camera, or if he was merely enjoying being so close and being able to study so openly. His hands—large, strong, and just the slightest bit dry—came to rest very gently on either side of Dean’s neck. His fingers splayed out, supporting his jaw gently, and his thumbs rested at the edges of his throat, Dean’s pulse beating hard against the pads of calloused skin.

Castiel’s eyes pinned him wordlessly, and Dean’s head swam at how incredibly _close _he was; he barely noticed Castiel’s hands shifting gently down, his fingers sliding under the edge of the robe and pushing it slowly from his shoulders so that it fell to the ground with a soft _shush _of fabric. 

“There,” Castiel whispered huskily, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Dean swallowed harshly, very aware of Castiel’s hands resting on his shoulders. He gave a jerky nod, before managing to turn it into some semblance of a cocky smile. “I’ve been in all kinds of strange situations… this is one I could surely get used to.”

Unable to control himself, Dean’s hand rose to rest tentatively at Castiel’s hip, feeling the roughness of his dark suit trousers beneath his fingers. It was such a strange power balance, to be dressed like this in front of someone done up like Castiel; his vest, tie, and shoes all firmly in place. 

“I’ll admit,” Dean confessed boldly, “I’d feel more comfortable if you were wearing less.”

Castiel’s expression curled into a grin, his hooded eyes crinkling. “Is that so,” he said softly. His hands came up to his vest buttons, without moving back from Dean in the slightest, so his hands brushed against the exposed skin of Dean’s chest.

Dean relished the feeling, struggling to keep his breathing even. He could already feel the effects of Castiel’s closeness in the tightening of the silk, and he slowly exhaled, trying not to embarrass himself. 

_We have a monster to catch, _he reminded himself futilely. This wasn’t supposed to be… that.

Castiel tossed his vest aside, a puff of lavender scent releasing from his clean shirt beneath that took Dean by surprise. He reached up and loosened his stiff tie, so the blue fabric was not as tight about his neck; somehow the sight of it almost did Dean in, askew against his rumpled white shirt, almost as debauched as if he was wearing nothing. 

“That will do for now,” Castiel said, grinning; a tease. “We have work to do, after all,” he said, though his voice wasn’t quite steady.

Licking his lips carefully, Dean gave another jerky nod.

It seemed to be with quite some effort that Castiel took a firm step back, then another. A little space between them, Castiel slowly dragged his eyes down Dean’s frame, taking in the expanse of skin that Dean now had on show as if he was counting every freckle.

Dean felt utterly exposed.

He loved it.

Castiel’s eyes rested on the green silk and lace that barely contained Dean—by then even less than when he’d first put them on—and his lips parted fractionally in a silent gasp.

Dean watched him hungrily, his reaction everything.

It almost looked as if Castiel had to force himself back behind the camera, and Dean would admit that he took a little pleasure in it. Usually, Dean was the kind of confident that verged on cocky, with any kind of potential partner—but something about Castiel flustered him and made him lose his cool. It was gratifying to see that, perhaps, he was not the only one. 

Castiel gestured to the chaise longue, indicating for Dean to sit back down. He had returned to professional mode then, directing Dean, as if their moment hadn’t happened—other than the deep gravel of arousal that still pulled at his voice, despite some desperate throat clearing. It was a sound that hit low in Dean’s gut and was doing little to will down the half-formed erection that was threatening the silk, even with Castiel now safely behind the camera.

“Arm up a little…” Castiel murmured, his attention on his camera lens, watching Dean through it. “Spread your legs… very good. Put one up on the seat, for me? Bent, like—perfect.”

Castiel kept up his instructions for a minute, before a flash and a strange, salty scent indicated the picture being taken.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, sounding a little sheepish. “Would you mind if I… took some more? I know we only need one, really, but…”

Castiel’s eyes roamed Dean slowly, and Dean felt himself heat under the attention.

“It almost seems a shame,” Dean said as calmly as he could manage, “to get all of this set up for just one picture…”

Castiel nodded, taking the permission for what it was. 

“How would you like me, Cas?” Dean asked, fixing his eyes back on Castiel, staring his fill in return, the photographer’s disheveled appearance—his clothes half discarded, his hair in tufts from pulling at it behind the camera in the heat of the bright gas lights—doing nothing at all to settle the hopeful simmer in Dean’s belly.

Castiel’s nod was shaky. “Perhaps, like—” he gestured vaguely, his eyes never leaving the seat, the silk, the lace, Dean.

So, Dean took a deep breath. “Show me.”

Somehow, despite where they were and what they were doing, never mind the perpetual dance that had got them there, Castiel still looked a little nervous as he crossed the carpeted space between the camera and the chaise. Dean tried not to focus on the way his dripping, swiftly-thickening erection was beginning to leave a hopeful damp patch of ever-darkening emerald silk near the tip. 

“I’m usually incredibly professional when I…” Castiel trailed off, as if he’d entirely forgotten his train of thought once his eyes discovered the wet spot of liquid truth that Dean was unable to conceal. 

“Of course,” Dean said, finding himself breathless. “I don’t think that you’re…” he trailed off too, words unsaid seeming clearer than all the sentences they could form, just then. 

Castiel reached across, using three guiding fingers against the outside of Dean’s arm to position it just so, angling him to lay back across the seat. Much slower, more cautious, the fingers moved to the inside of Dean’s knee, parting his legs to reveal the purple velvet of the seat beneath. Castiel stepped up into Dean’s space, ever more intimately, reaching across him to adjust his other arm, above his head. 

Dean held his breath. He wouldn’t move. This was Cas; for Dean’s peace of mind, this had to be all Cas. He wouldn’t abuse his position of trust, coming here on business to protect and—

His thoughts failed, as Castiel’s fingers dropped to lightly, shakingly, trace across his cheekbone.

Castiel’s knee between Dean’s thighs was the most confident part of him, sliding onto the edge of the chaise as his weight shifted forward, more kneeling over Dean than standing beside. Dean could smell his sandalwood and soap scent, the lavender of his freshly steamed shirt, the gentle musk of his effort creating his art. Everything above him was Cas, everything around him was Cas, and Dean needed nothing else, the overwhelming closeness of Castiel’s bourbon-breath on his lips taking the last scrap of sense that he had.

“Dean?” Castiel said with a gasp and a shake that belied everything unsaid. 

“Yes?” Dean managed, utterly breathless. _This must be what the hysteria feels like; there’s not air enough in the room for us both, _he thought helplessly_._

The knee so cautiously sliding up the inside of Dean’s thigh trembled, but after a moment long enough to entirely stop Dean’s heart, Castiel’s breathy words crossed the scant inch between them.

“May I kiss you, m’lord?”

_Yes, yes, finally, yes…_Dean raised his hand away from where Castiel had so carefully positioned it, bringing it between them so that he could have his palm at Castiel’s cheek, his fingers tangling in the wildness of his thick hair. His nose brushed against Castiel’s own, side to side, the tingle of that glorious anticipatory moment _right before _a truly life changing instant buzzing through his veins. “Please,” Dean whispered back, allowing his relief, his need, his eagerness to flood into his voice. “I’ve wanted it more than I can stand.”

Until the end of his days, Dean would curse the fact that their flawless, chest-achingly perfect moment was cut short by a revolting shriek and the scent of seaweed and sulfur.

The gray, shambling creature surged forward, knocking Castiel into Dean, though not in the way either had intended. 

Dean’s enraged growl as he sprang off the chaise was almost as loud as the beast’s. “You couldn’t have waited a few more minutes?” he couldn’t help but hiss out loud.

Castiel had tumbled to the ground beside him, and even as a slight wheezing sound burst out of him that Dean thought might have been ill-timed laughter, he was scrambling across the floor to get to where Dean’s bandolier rested, over on the desk.

Fisticuffs weren’t likely to get him far but Dean wasn’t one to back down, and so he punched toward the creature, driving it back—more through confusion that he’d even try, it seemed, than any actual threat.

He’d never had a fist fight in women’s underwear before.

The hulking beast was most definitely solid this time, Dean noticed as his fist slammed ineffectually into the side of its face.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled, throwing one of the iron knives across to him. As Dean spun to catch it he caught sight of Castiel grabbing the second iron knife, spinning it into his palm in an accustomed, strangely sexy maneuver that Dean just _did not _have time to think about.

Immediately bringing the knife back around, Dean was just in time to raise his arms and shield his face from the creature, which brought both arms down overhead in an attempt to crush Dean’s skull. Driven to his knees instead, Dean jabbed the knife up as the beast leaned over, getting a solid hit on the monster’s stomach area before it stumbled back.

Thick gray goo oozed from the wound, dripping down onto the studio carpet. 

Castiel leapt in heroically, stabbing into the back of the thing’s neck, keeping its attention long enough for Dean to get back to his feet. The creature twisted wildly from side to side, throwing Castiel off and leaving his knife embedded in the meat of its neck. It turned, looming over Castiel and making a grotesque, anticipatory laughing sound.

Somehow, the sight of the creature fighting with Castiel—threatening Castiel—lit a fire under Dean like little ever had. He surged forward, practically roaring, swinging and slicing and battering the creature back, back, until despite his inferior size, he had the monster cornered at the back of the studio.

It thumped against the wall, the beautiful portraits of Castiel with his brass wings careening off their mounts, glass smashing as they bounced across the floor.

Dean almost had it: a clear shot at the throat.

He put all his force behind the knife, fully intending to embed his blade deep in the beast’s neck, but he was foiled, the thing kicking out and sweeping Dean’s legs, tumbling him into the wall. Off balance, the creature gained ground, shoving Dean hard back into the oak desk, his head smacking against the edge.

For a second, Dean saw stars, and his hearing became distant and muffled, and he was vaguely aware that the tiny scrap of silk covering his modesty was by then rather failing at its job.

“Hey!” Dean heard Castiel yelling as he staggered, shaking off the hit. “Leave him alone!”

And Castiel was on the monster, swinging wildly with the ornate iron desk lamp. He stood on top of the desk, gaining a height advantage on the creature, and pulled back the makeshift weapon right over his shoulder. He landed a hefty, wide swing that announced its connection to the beast’s skull with a frighteningly loud, sickening _crack. _The slow, long-limbed beast wailed and hissed, wobbling on its feet and becoming tangled in its own legs as Castiel beat it repeatedly around the head with the lamp. 

Castiel was surprisingly fearsome, and Dean might have enjoyed it a lot more had he not been cursing his likely concussion. 

As the creature staggered from Castiel’s assault, Dean took advantage and brought his knife forward into its stomach again and again, the horror spasming at the end of the blade until, after far too long, it fell still.

The hulking gray entity slumped down to the floor.

Dean and Castiel, panting and splattered with gray tar, looked down at it. Castiel slowly moved down from the desk, coming to stand beside Dean, overtop of the monster.

“In novels,” he noted with disgust, “they always _poof _away, or turn to ash or something.”

Dean smiled, amused. “Unfortunately, real life involves a lot more clean-up and substantial grave digging.”

They looked at each other, their heartbeats calming, a slow sense of relief filling the air. 

“You did it,” Castiel said, his grin proud and fond.

“No, Cas,” Dean said, subtly attempting to shift his limp, tar-splattered cock back inside his emerald satin and lace. That wasn’t quite how he wanted Castiel to see _that _for the first time. “We both did it.”

“Need some help with that?” Castiel said, smirking. “It seems women’s undergarments don’t make the best fighting clothes.”

“Oh hush, you rapscallion.” Dean couldn’t help his fond smile as he fired back, before heading to the small changing room to retrieve his clothes before they called Charlie.

Dean had spent nearly an hour availing himself of the Chapterhouse bath tub. Between the gray goop he wanted to wash off of his body, and the memory of Castiel so close right beforehand, it had taken him a while to finish up and pad his way back to his office, relaxed and clean. He dressed, though didn’t bother with his jacket or tie, and settled himself at his temporary desk.

He should begin to pack up, he knew.

Once he and Castiel had killed the beast, they’d quickly summoned Charlie and a clean-up crew from the Chapterhouse. After scolding them for trapping and taking on the creature alone, Charlie had taken over and sent Dean back to Manchester Street to rest. Once she saw which studio they were in, she had ceased any questions as to the trap they had set; but Dean had a feeling he hadn’t heard the last of it from her. 

So back at the South East Chapterhouse he was, procrastinating on packing his things. He knew that Michael would expect him promptly to report in on the case—never mind his brother’s safety—but Dean had little motivation to fill his trunk. He sat at the desk instead, not wanting to summon a porter to assist or begin folding his clothes. He simply didn’t want to go back to London.

He wanted to stay with Castiel.

Which was wildly inappropriate—they hadn’t so much as kissed, or declared any kind of interest, beyond their charged flirtations. Had Castiel merely gotten carried away? Had he hoped for a mere fling, perhaps, or an entertainment? Or did he feel as Dean did?

There were too many questions, and not a one of them made it appropriate to tell Castiel of his desires, never mind his heart. What did he have to offer a man like Castiel, anyway? He’d been banished away from London, that much was clear, and Dean’s title held little weight in the scheme of things. Castiel, with his wit and his talents and his ocean blue eyes, could do much better. Perhaps he wasn’t a lord, but even an association with the De Angelis family such as he had could possibly net him a daughter of one of the newer lords, or perhaps even an American. They were less fussed about such things.

Mired in melancholy, he considered that he might take a nap before attempting to fill his trunk. His hair still damp, he fixed on that as a fine idea and shuffled his way across the bed; kicking off his shoes but little else as he fell onto the covers.

Dean awoke sometime later to firm, insistent knocking.

“Alright,” he grumbled, rubbing the restless sleep from his eyes and sitting up, at least taking a second to smooth out his vest and shirt-sleeves before he opened the door.

“Cas?” he said, surprised. The photographer looked fresh, cleared of gray tar and sporting a soft redness to his cheeks that indicated a very recent kind of cleanliness. His hair was fluffier than usual—Dean immediately wanted to bury his fingers in it—and damp curls behind his ears belied the truth of Dean’s theory; Castiel had bathed as soon as Charlie dismissed him and then had headed straight to Manchester Street.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “I apologize. Were you sleeping?”

“Honestly, yes, but not well. I was merely procrastinating on packing my things.”

“To go back to London,” Castiel said, a strange edge to his voice, nodding as if he understood. “Of course.”

“Cas—” Dean began. 

“Dean—” Castiel started at the same time.

They both paused, laughing.

“Go ahead, Cas,” Dean said with a warm smile.

“May I come in?”

Dean’s eyes momentarily flicked around his temporary bedroom; nowhere to receive visitors, just a desk and a bed, hardly appropriate at all. “Of course,” he said regardless, stepping aside. “You’ll have to forgive me for not having anywhere proper to seat you, I—”

Castiel stepped within, and Dean’s words cut off immediately as Castiel turned and closed the door firmly, slipping the brass bolt across the inside.

One part of Dean’s chest leapt immediately to panic and concern—the other, straight to hope.

And finally, gloriously, he was right.

Castiel rushed forward as soon as the door was secured, surging up to Dean’s front like a crashing wave of stormy blue, pushing back until Dean’s thighs hit the desk. His breath was hot, and bourbon-flavored; _A little Dutch-courage then, _Dean thought.

“Dean…” Castiel breathed against his lips, pausing only fractionally.

With no hesitation—as their entire acquaintance up until that point, Dean decided, had been solely hesitation—Dean got his hands up Castiel’s back and into his hair, and pushed their lips together.

Kissing Castiel was more, even, than Dean had hoped it would be.

Untethered, his hands roamed Dean’s hair and shoulders, the presses of his lips long, deep, and hungry. There were no chaste beginnings, no polite pecks or searching breaths—kissing Castiel was like making love to a hurricane. _No, _Dean thought deliriously, _it’s a storm at sea, _as he drowned in soft, dry lips and darkened blue eyes that were open, devouring, easily as much as they were closed.

Breathless, Castiel pulled back. Their foreheads rested together easily at their almost-matching heights, and soft pants rose and fell between them while they both recovered, licked lips, and traded light flushes.

“Was that—”

“Everything,” said Dean, without reluctance. “That was everything.”

He dove back in, joining their mouths and letting his fingers tangle in the fresh-washed fluff of Castiel’s hair. He intended for this man to be left in no doubt as to how much Dean wanted him, how much he craved every inch of him.

“Or perhaps,” Dean panted against Castiel’s lower lip, pausing to trail his tongue along it. “Not quite everything?” His eyes darted to the bed, questioning.

Castiel gave a shaky nod, drawing himself away from Dean’s front only to let him step from the desk. Dean mirrored his steps, moving forward and backing Castiel up to the edge of the mattress; all the way, his lips covered new ground, up Castiel’s jaw and then down his neck, following Dean’s thoughts down into his clothes.

At the sensation of Dean’s mouth on his neck Castiel gave a soft moan, the backs of his knees buckling against the bed. As he went down, his hands came up to Dean’s neck and back, pulling him down on top of him.

“Not that I don’t think you have temptingly handsome, fashionable London suits,” Castiel panted, taking the time to punctuate the spaces between the words with kisses up to Dean’s ear, “but I did prefer what you wore for me earlier,” he admitted.

Dean could feel Castiel’s teeth and wide grin against the bolt of his jaw, and it sent an involuntary shudder through him. “I must admit,” Dean breathed, using his arms to cage himself above Castiel, “the feel of silk and lace is now one I shall forever cherish.”

Castiel paused, and the look that passed fleetingly over his features was coy, and to Dean, delightfully suspicious.

“Oh, Cas…” Dean couldn’t help but groan down into his shoulder. “Tell me you did.”

“Why don’t you find out,” Castiel whispered, hot against his ear.

Dean’s fingers were deft, sure, and eager as he straddled Castiel on the bed, divesting him of his tie and thick, tweed waistcoat. The thin, delicate corset he wore beneath his clothes was far more noticeable with just his dress shirt over it, and Dean took a moment to run his fingers across the ridges beneath the cotton. Castiel was watching him closely, biting his lip as Dean caressed up his sides.

“It’s not off-putting?” he asked breathlessly after a moment, sounding more curious than concerned. 

“Cas…” Dean could feel his own voice rumbling lower than usual, and he leaned down to mouth at the curve of Castiel’s ear before huskily whispering his response straight into it. “Does it feel like it’s off-putting to me?”

Still straddling Castiel’s thighs, Dean rolled his hips forward, brushing his hard, eager cock against the inside of his hip. Castiel let out a groan of delight, so close to Dean that he felt the vibration of the photographer’s throaty voice through his chest. 

Dean continued his quest to entirely disrobe Castiel, leaving his shirt on momentarily as he undid the trusses of his trousers, tugging the front open with his thumbs. He took a moment just to stare, his breath hitching as he took in the emerald green silk and lace hidden within.

“Oh, Cas…” Dean rumbled, low, slinking down on the bed as Castiel pushed himself up it toward the pillows, so that Dean was between his legs. Dean just looked, taking in the way Castiel’s hard length listed to the right as the silken fabric pinned it to his body, fighting against the material but able to do little other than leave warm, damp streaks that bloomed darkly above the thick bulge in the silk. “Fuck, Cas…” Dean sighed out, caring little for propriety and language when he was spread between such fantastic thighs.

“That’s the plan,” Castiel said teasingly from up the bed. “Unless, of course, you’d like me to fuck you.”

That ripped a louder groan from Dean, and he couldn’t help but dip his face down, nosing into the green fabric. “Yes, please… please,” Dean begged. “There’s oil in my trunk… it’s seen use already this trip, imagining you inside of me.” He inhaled deeply, taking in the musky, intimate scent, and nudged his way up the warmth of Castiel’s entire length. Reaching the lace hem, Dean took a moment to mouth hotly over the wet tip, taking just the head between his lips, fabric and all.

“Oh, shit—” Castiel burst out at the sensation, before biting his lip. 

Dean pulled back, resting onto his heels so that he could tug Castiel’s trousers down his thighs, taking the invitation of lifted hips to discard them entirely. Dean took a moment just to admire, before he slowly reached up, undoing Castiel’s shirt button-by-button, every inch a prize. The sight, Dean considered, had to be the most perfect thing he’d ever seen: Castiel’s bare, powerful thighs leading up to the same silk underthings that he himself had been encased in only hours before, the light corset, white lace to match the trim of the lower garment, and then his half-undone white shirt billowing around him on the mattress, revealing his strong pectorals and hard, dark nipples above. There was a freckle; just sitting there close to his right nipple, enchanting, rather than distracting. 

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean said in awe, trailing his hands along the inside of Castiel’s thighs lightly, barely enough not to tickle. “Now _this _is something you need to photograph.”

“Would you like that, Dean?” Castiel asked huskily, pushing up with his hands flat on the mattress, propping himself up so that Dean knelt between his bent legs. He stole a deep kiss before he continued, his words hot on Dean’s cheek. “A photograph, a memory to take home with you, to keep a piece with you, even in London?”

_I want more than a memory_, Dean thought, but any response was stolen from him with another kiss, and Castiel’s hands beginning to work off his clothing in turn. 

It took only minutes for them both to be stretched on the bed, various items of clothing tossed around the room or abandoned on the mattress. Dean was already nude, the two of them stretched out together on their sides. Castiel’s strong arms held him close against his chest as their bodies undulated and rolled, Dean’s cock twitching and throbbing desperately against Castiel as he rocked into his pelvis, the silk Castiel still wore rubbing erotically all up his length as they kissed.

There was a sense of desperation; something in them both that was taking this _now_, a last chance, something to cherish and keep. Dean disentangled them only as long as it took for him to grab the oil from his trunk, before losing himself in kissing every inch of Castiel he could reach once more.

Castiel didn’t waste much time opening Dean up; Dean hurried him, both frequently familiar with the sensations involved and wanting to make sure that he still felt it the next day, when he boarded the train, alone. 

“Dean…” Castiel said, poised above him, his arms framing Dean’s chest on the mattress. There was something in his voice that echoed oddly in Dean’s heart, some kind of caution or longing that he didn’t elaborate on. Instead he pushed, slowly, firmly, sinking into Dean steadily, his eyes squeezing shut. 

Dean gasped at the intrusion, but with his hands on Castiel’s hips, he encouraged him ever further. Flush together, Castiel’s face rested at the side of Dean’s, buried in the pillow. 

“You feel so good—so full, God, Cas…” Dean panted helplessly into his ear.

Anything else he wanted to say disappeared with the first snap back of Castiel’s hips. His hand came up to push one of Dean’s thighs up against his chest for a deeper angle, and he pounded into him over and over, loud and shameless, grunting as the desperation they’d both shown spilled over. 

They couldn’t possibly last long, like that. A few minutes of furiously squeaking bedsprings and clawing fingers later, Dean felt his stomach tightening, a warming sense of constriction and pulling already growing in his abdomen and balls. 

But that wasn’t what he wanted. At least, not just that.

“Cas,” Dean all but whispered. “Look at me.”

Castiel lifted his face almost reluctantly from where he’d buried it in the space between Dean’s neck and the pillow. “Dean,” he echoed softly, his thrusts slowing as he bent down, joining their lips again. 

Their hips were still, connected together deeply but unmoving, as they kissed—softer, with more longing than either had spoken.

“Dean, I…” Castiel trailed off, pulling back to study Dean’s face. “I’ll miss you,” was what he eventually seemed to settle on confessing.

The words choked Dean oddly, and he just nodded, his hands sliding up to frame Castiel’s face as they began to slide together again, slow and languid, nothing like the way they’d started.

They gasped in time, hitched breaths stuttering between them, their eyes locked for long, overwhelming minutes. It was both a needed relief and a disappointment when Castiel reached down between them and took Dean in hand, working his red, dripping cock quickly to give Dean an orgasm to match his own.

Everything about Castiel felt good, Dean thought through the white fuzz of his mind as Castiel’s warm emission filled him—his breaths on Dean’s neck, the way he twitched between Dean’s thighs, buttocks tensed, still thrusting slowly even as his spend stuttered to a halt and squelched out of Dean with his motions. The soft grunts he made, the way his back muscles rolled beneath Dean’s hands. The way his voice shook as he said Dean’s name, so close Dean could feel it as much as hear it.

Even as he pulled back, slipping out of Dean, Castiel didn’t seem quite ready to be done. Dean watched as he looked down, trailing a thumb around the open, gaping hole that he’d filled, slowly sliding his fingers through the milky remains that trickled from inside. Dean hissed, sensitive, but grabbed Castiel’s wrist at the same time, not wanting him to stop.

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmured softly, his expression not far from what it had been on the beach, when he’d gazed at Dean’s countenance in the perfect artists’ light. “You are perfect,” he said quietly, in the end.

They lay together for a few moments, cooling and breathing, trading kisses here and there.

“I don’t know about you,” Dean murmured into the space behind Castiel’s ear. “But it’s been a really long day, and I’m hungry and tired, after that.”

Castiel hummed an agreement, and they reluctantly dressed.

“The Chapterhouse cook is excellent,” Dean said quietly, when they were decent. “You could stay, eat. They’re happy to bring it to the rooms, usually.”

With a nod, Castiel said he would.

Jo only smiled serenely as she delivered hot meat sandwiches and fresh salad to Dean’s room, not saying a single word, dropping a quick curtsey and leaving. Dean made a note to thank her later.

They ate in silence, comfortable if somewhat charged. By the time they were done, they were both stifling yawns. 

“Stay?” Dean finally asked, quiet and unsure.

Castiel took a moment to nod, and Dean didn’t want to think on what the source of his hesitation might be. 


	6. Forces Which Were Unknown

_Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake. – Napoleon Bonaparte_

“Samuel Winchester at the Men of Letters Research Library, Berkley Square, London,” Dean clarified to the telephone operator who was directing his call.

He waited, drumming his fingers along the iron-wrapped edge of the now-packed travelling trunk that leaned at the edge of his desk. It was heavy, containing not just his clothing and personal effects, but all of his equipment and the carefully-wrapped samples from the laboratory.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice came through warmly. “I hear congratulations are in order. Another beast banished?”

“Indeed,” Dean nodded. “The creature is dead.”

“And why did I hear it as gossip from the reports clerk at number forty-six, rather than from your own mouth, hmm?” Sam questioned.

“I was busy.” Dean couldn’t help that his grin seeped into his voice.

“With your bastard De Angelis?” The term was to the point, but there was absolutely no malice in it, only a tease that covered up some actual hope on his brother’s part, Dean thought.

“Yes, actually.”

“So, your feelings are returned then, I take it?”

“Well…” Dean hesitated. “We didn’t actually speak about any of that…”

“You didn’t? Then what—_Dean!” _Sam sounded horrified.

“Don’t get your petticoat in a ruffle, Sammy,” Dean grumbled. If his cheeks were a bit pink, well, Sam couldn’t see it. “It doesn’t seem right to say anything or put some kind of expectation on him when I’m coming back to London today.”

He didn’t mention the way their desperate tumble the night before had turned into something else, something that Dean was holding in his heart and didn’t want to lose. He didn’t mention how, when he’d awoken that morning, it had been to Castiel kissing the back of his neck and stroking his hips, and how they’d silently, slowly made love again—because that is what it had been, he knew—before they untangled themselves from the sheets. 

When Castiel had left to go and open the Novak Studio, it had been with kisses far more tender than a single night deserved.

Dean was done, lost, so far gone, there was no returning. But that was exactly what he had to do—return. To London. Alone.

“Dean, you know you’re being ridiculous, don’t you?” Sam cut through his reverie. 

“Can we—you know what, we have a case to talk about,” Dean snapped. He wasn’t mad at Sam; he didn’t deserve his ire. But it was all Dean had to give, and somehow, Sam seemed to sense it.

“Alright, brother. Ro is going to telephone shortly—she had information about the creature; she just wanted to go to her library and verify something. Though I suppose it’s moot now, with you having killed it.”

“Even so,” Dean said, giving a shrug that Sam couldn’t see. “Let me know when I return. It may be useful additional information for the Chapter. I’m going to report to Elder Michael as soon as I get off the train, so you’ll see me close to dinner.”

“Alright, Dean. I’ll see you at home.”

There was something sad, almost melancholy in his brother’s voice, Dean realized as he hung up. He knew his brother was only concerned with his happiness—he’d long wished Dean would find someone to settle down and share his life with. With Queen Victoria’s new decency laws, his options had been opened up, but that didn’t change who he was and how little he had to offer beyond a title he didn’t deserve—not to mention that he still wasn’t certain that any more serious of an advance would be welcome. No matter what was between them, or could be, Castiel had his own life here in Brighton, and his brothers wouldn’t stand for him being in London.

Dean shook himself to get out of his head. With a small sigh, he reached to grab the handle of his travelling trunk and took one last look around the guest office to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. His eyes were still lingering on the bed when Jo knocked on the door.

“Lord Winchester,” she said, curtseying. “Ed is ready to drive you to the train station. Charlie sends her apologies. She has been called to Elder Joshua’s office, though she is disappointed she’ll miss sending you off.”

Dean was a little disappointed, too; he’d grown very fond of the vivacious redhead. “Well, that can’t be helped, I suppose. Please do bid her farewell for me.”

Jo nodded. She took Dean’s trunk in hand, tilting it behind her to wheel out into the corridor. 

The morning was sunny and pleasant. When Castiel had departed an hour or so before to go and reopen his studio, Dean hadn’t gone beyond the door of his room. They hadn’t really said goodbye, but nonetheless it had been there in the air. Now that he stepped outside and felt the sun on his face, it felt like an insult. The last thing he felt was warm and cheery.

Ed made quick work of the short drive to the train station. Jo accompanied them, and she hopped out to wrestle Dean’s trunk while Ed opened his door. 

Dean wasn’t quite sure how he was running late for the train… he’d had plenty of time. He just didn’t feel quite able to get going, his feet dragging, his mind wandering repeatedly. The train station itself was much like the dirigible station, with concrete slabbed platforms and high sandstone arches. People bustled back and forth under a ceiling of whistles and steam. He rushed to the ticket-booth, pulling out the enchanted pocket watch that would send record of his fare to his banker; though in the case of Letters business, he’d be reimbursed for it all later, when the case was settled. Technically speaking, Dean had plenty of money, and the promise of a living should he find something in the crown books that was to his tastes—part of his reward from Her Royal Highness. But he couldn’t let go of his upbringing, and still saved every penny he could, collecting his reimbursement like all other agents. 

Jo helped him get his trunk up off the platform and onto the carriage, pushing it back from the door and making sure there would be space for others. The train whistle sounded, and she wished him farewell, her curtsey accentuated by the simple cut of her plain porter’s skirt. Once the door was closed, Dean turned and lowered the glass, poking his head out onto the platform so he could call to Jo as she moved away and remind her to send his best wishes to Charlie.

There was no part of him, he realized as his upper body poked out of the window, that wanted to be on that train.

“Dean!” 

And that was why. Castiel came running along the platform as the final whistle sounded—true to form he wore no hat, his tie was too loose, and he wore a beige overcoat that flapped around him wildly as he sprinted, clashing with everything else he wore.

He was beautiful.

“Cas!” Dean called out, leaning forward out of the window.

Castiel didn’t hesitate. As soon as he made it to the edge of the platform he rose up onto his toes, grabbing the back of Dean’s neck and pulling him down into an intense, searing kiss, onlookers be damned. Dean had no objections, savoring the feel of Castiel’s plush lips against his own for what might be the last time.

“Dean…” Castiel breathed out his name against Dean’s lips, and he sounded choked up enough—heartbroken enough—that Dean opened his eyes. “I thought I’d missed you.”

“Cas,” Dean echoed. _I don’t want this to be the last time I see you. _“I’m glad you didn’t.”

There was a conductor yelling at them; the train began to shudder, preparing to move.

“I wanted to come to the studio, but I didn’t have time,” Dean said. _I was scared I would make a fool of myself if I did, _he didn’t say.

“Take this,” Castiel said, reaching into his inner coat pocket and pulling out a small paper-wrapped package. He sounded desperate and sad, and Dean didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. “Please.”

Dean took the package quickly as the steam train let out a loud, piercing whistle, beginning to pick up steam. “Cas!” he yelled desperately, but he was already losing him back along the platform. Recalling Castiel’s own words from the night before, Dean shouted, “Cas! I’ll miss you!”

It was too late to hear any response.

Dean stayed at the window for a mile or so, the city station turning to small backstreets and mining cottages, before pulling his head in and slowly sliding the glass back up. He looked down at the thin brown paper parcel he held, having somehow almost forgotten it and its mystery contents until that moment.

He moved on into the carriage, finding an empty table at which to sit with his melancholy. He shucked off his jacket, placing the package from Castiel on the tabletop next to his top hat while he stashed his trunk under the table and settled into a seat.

“May I get you anything, sir?” a rail employee in a peaked cap and white-trimmed jacket asked.

“Drink. Whiskey if you’ve got it, and plenty of it,” Dean answered dully, knowing exactly what his plans for the long journey were. His heavy heart would allow little else.

“Yessir,” the man said, dipping his cap before he stepped away to fetch Dean’s request, the faintest of creases on his brow.

The package had two simple pieces of string holding the crisp, new-looking brown paper around it. The outside of it was blank, no postage stamps or address—Castiel had obviously always planned to give him this in person, or perhaps not at all. Dean ran his fingers over the smoothness of it, somehow nervous, before pulling at the knots in the string.

Within were two prints, and a letter. 

Dean picked up the prints first, deciding to leave the personal words until later. With a blink of surprise, Dean realized that the top one was the picture of him that Castiel had taken in his private studio the day before.

It was a breathtaking picture—an odd thing to think about a photograph of himself, Dean realized, but the way Castiel had taken it made him look almost ethereal. Dean was gazing straight at the camera, his limbs splayed artfully around the velvet chaise longue that he rested on, drawing all attention to exactly where Castiel had wanted it; the notable bulge of Dean’s silk-wrapped erection. It was honestly beautiful, the lines of it, the way Castiel had somehow unfocused the background so that everything was centered on—

“Sir.” The train attendant cleared his throat politely. “Your whiskey?”

“Oh!” Dean flushed deeply, angling the picture swiftly away from the man. “Thank you, yes.” 

Bad enough to be caught looking at erotic photography on a train—while in his uniform, no less. Even more awkward if he had to explain to his superiors that it was a photograph of _him._

He made absolutely sure that the attendant was on his way and that the other occupants of his carriage were suitably occupied in their own booths. Just in case, he stood, taking the sway of the train through his legs, and closed the small door that kept him at least somewhat separate from the rest of the train. Easing himself back down to the table, Dean took a fortifying gulp from his cup before he picked up the other print, turning it over to look at.

It was like a mirror. Dean looked at it in surprise for a moment, impressed and—yes, he’d admit it—more than a little aroused. The picture was of Castiel, wearing the same underthings that Dean had worn in his own picture. Everything about the picture was a mirror to Dean’s own; the position, the tilt of the chair, the placement of his hands. Dean exhaled slowly, knowing that this was the photograph Castiel had spoken of when they’d been abed the night before—the memory for Dean to take with him. 

It was a bittersweet thought, so he put it aside.

The letter was folded and sealed with wax, a simple seal of a curled letter ‘N’ alone. Dean slipped his finger under it, opening the crisp parchment and taking another sip of whiskey before he settled in to read. 

_“Dear Dean,” _the missive began. _“I felt that you deserved to have the photograph we took as part of the case in your possession, as you gave no permission for it to be included in my collection—and I confess, I found it a little personal for the gallery.”_

Dean found himself smiling fondly. He wouldn’t have minded in the slightest if Castiel had kept the photograph for the gallery—or even as a souvenir himself. 

_“The second picture is a gamble on my part, perhaps, but I find myself unable to hold back from presenting you with it. The photograph that began the strange happenings at my studio, which drew us into each other's orbit, you may recall, was a portrait for a man who wished to give a keepsake to his sweetheart,” _Dean read.

His heart picked up something fierce, hammering against his ribs, and he found himself sitting up straighter in his seat as the train rumbled on.

_“Whilst I realize that what I am sending for you is rather more intimate than that, I still hope that it will serve to remind you of me… in whatever capacity you would have me.”_

Dean’s mouth was dry.

_“I cannot come to London, things as they are. I have little to offer a man such as you; your title alone should be enough to keep my lips sealed. So, I ask for nothing, and offer the only thing I have… which is just the knowledge that as you travel back to London, you take my heart with you._

_“A mannerless, wild bastard such as I should not love a lord, an upstanding Lettersman, the Red Hand of London, as you are. But I find I do, and I am helpless to it, no matter the poor circumstances that we are in, and the sheer ridiculousness of our situation._

_“Travel well, claim the further accolades that no doubt await you at home in London. Be happy in life, and know that I love you… I love you, I love you.”_

Castiel’s signature was shaky, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to dwell on the splotches of blurred ink near the ends. 

The paper shook in Dean’s hands. He refolded it, but lasted only minutes before he brought it out again to read, over and over. 

Such it was all the way to London. 

Dean hurried up the steps to the unassuming door of number forty-six Berkeley Square. The little doorbell button, with its subtly engraved Men of Letters symbol, gave a desolate ring as he pressed. He waited, impatiently. He knew by then, with absolute certainty, that he had much more important places he wanted to be, places he needed to be. But he would tie up his business, because he wasn’t the type of man who liked to leave anything unfinished.

With a perilous creak, the door swung wide, and young Alfie’s smiling face greeted him.

“Lord Winchester! Welcome home,” he said, bowing deeply.

“Thank you, Alfie. Is Elder Michael in his study? I haven’t made an appointment, but he should be expecting my report…”

“Actually,” Alfie said, ducking his head apologetically, “he is not. He took off an hour or so ago. We told him that you were on your way as soon as the South East Chapterhouse sent word that you’d departed, but he said he had business at Angelis Hall and that he would receive you there.”

The statement gave Dean a slight pause—Lord Michael was intensely private, and he couldn’t recall hearing of anyone being called to Angelis Hall for Letters business, or for anything at all outside of formal social events, which, given his status, were practically obligatory to host. 

“I see,” said Dean. “Well, thank you, Alfie—could I commandeer some transportation, do you think? It’s quite a few miles to the De Angelis estate, and I walked from the train station after having my trunk directed home.”

“Of course,” the helpful young porter said. “Anything for the Red Hand, you know that. Come in, take a seat for a moment, and I will have someone prepare a streetcar—or if they’re all out on business, I could take you in the old curricle.” 

Dean gave a small shrug; he cared little how he got there as long as he did. As much as the steam age was exciting and fast, he had little objection to a horse and carriage. “Anything available will be fine, Alfie,” he reassured.

So the curricle it was. 

Alfie drove, whipping along at a swift pace. Dean held on tight as they bounced forth to Angelis Hall in the small carriage, rattling their way through cobblestone streets until they passed away from Mayfair and out further west. The journey passed quickly for Dean, who was in a strange mood, and not even just because he felt that he’d left half of himself in Brighton.

He kept turning over the case in his mind. To him, it still felt unfinished, some pieces missing. Yes, the creature was dead—but what was it? And why had it latched onto Castiel? He felt that there were still forces that were unknown. Going to Michael’s home rather than the Men of Letters office was only adding to his sense of unease. 

“Here we are, sir,” Alfie said with a tip of his hat. “I can’t wait, they’ll be wanting me back at HQ, but I’ll send Kenny with the car as soon as he’s free.”

Alfie pulled up in the carriage turn of Angelis Hall, right outside the doorway. The building was a huge, gray affair, very square to the eye with blocky towers and rampant attics. Dean had always thought it looked like an unfriendly building, but as he didn’t have to live there, it mattered little.

With a nod, Dean jumped down from the door as it was held open for him. “I hope to not be long, so please do send him as soon as you can,” he said, leaving aside the fact that the idea of spending any more time with Michael De Angelis than was absolutely necessary was a little horrifying.

Dean heard the curricle bouncing its way back up the cobblestone driveway as he approached the front door. No one came immediately to receive him, which felt odd—they’d made quite the noise on their approach. So, he knocked and waited nervously. After an interminable silence, the door parted, and a middle-aged gentleman in a house suit bowed deeply.

“Lord Winchester. Please excuse the wait, sir, it’s only Lord Michael and myself here today.”

Only one servant? In a house this size? Dean smoothed out his puzzled frown and stepped across the threshold. “Don’t worry about it. Can you direct me straight to Lord Michael? I don’t want to take up much of his time.”

“Of course, sir. Please—take a seat here in this parlor for just a moment, I will go and ensure m’lord is ready to receive you,” the older man said, leading Dean up the hall a little way. The house was cold and quiet, imposing in a very hostile manner, and Dean decided he liked it no better from the inside than he did from the outside.

The parlor he was shown into was small, a mere receiving room, with a few chairs and an unlit fireplace. It was also quite dusty, Dean noticed. That was odd; Dean himself was no overly fastidious man, but to let a house such as this go to dust was baffling. It wasn’t as if the De Angelis family lacked money. Dean pondered what else could lead Michael to shun his father’s fine house in such a way.

Lord De Angelis himself, a humble, well-liked man named Charles, had opened the house much more when he was well, Dean recalled. But no one had seen him for a long time, his rights to the home and the Men of Letters leadership given to his sons by attorney when he fell ill. 

The servant who had admitted Dean left the door open behind him as he disappeared off up the hall to inform his master of Dean’s arrival, and Dean was left to his own devices for several minutes.

He was walking about the parlor, observing the slightly neglected portraits of old De Angelis family members, when he heard a distinct thump.

Dean froze, too well trained not to notice the noise.

_THUD! _sounded above Dean’s head.

The noise was quiet, but it gave Dean the impression of something that was actually quite loud, but a little further from him, obscured—something up in the attic, perhaps. 

Against his own better judgement, Dean stepped silently to the door.

_CRASH! _came from overhead.

Noiseless in the hallway, Dean made his way up toward the wide, curling staircase that led to the upper levels. He tip-toed, keeping an ear out for further sounds.

There was a quieter thudding, then, and something like muffled shouting.

Dean’s chest froze—surely not? But…

Dean had not had the kind of life, working his way through hundreds of Letters cases both natural and super, wherein he was lucky enough not to recognize that sound.

It was the racket made by someone restrained, desperately beating their heels against the floor because they heard a noise… like the noise of Dean’s approach to the front door.

Frozen on the steps, Dean wasn’t sure what to do. Before any decision could be made, there was a perilous creak from further down the hallway, and Dean dashed his way silently back to the parlor door.

When the servant appeared, he had a suspicious look to him, but he said nothing of Dean’s oddly stiff posture, stood waiting in the middle of the room. 

“Come with me, sir,” he said, gesturing out to the hallway. “His Lordship will see you now.”

While Dean’s agreement and movement were cautious, he had little choice but to follow along. 

The office Dean was admitted to was warmer, at least, a roaring fire chasing off the odd misty chill. Elder Michael stood in front of the hearth, facing it, his hands behind his back. He didn’t turn as Dean entered.

“Close the door please, Bartholomew.” 

“Elder Michael,” Dean said, bowing even though he wasn’t being directly looked at. “I hope not to take up too much of your time.”

When Michael turned, he smiled coldly. “I’m sure you won’t.”

Something felt immediately off, and the sense of it only increased when Dean heard the door click and thunk behind him. They were locked in the office. 

“I—uh,” Dean said eloquently. “M’lord? Is everything well?”

Michael took several steps forward. “It will be just fine. You threw a stick in my spokes, for sure, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

Dean frowned, backing up automatically, half his mind already occupied by an assessment of everything he carried in his bandolier. His gun was loaded, but there was little that could combat a sorcerer as powerful as one who held an Elder title, he knew. “I did what you asked, sir—I killed the beast. I protected your brother…”

Michael’s fingers twisted at his side, and Dean found himself suddenly dragged to his knees, immobile. The binds of magic that pulled at his arms and constrained him were invisible to his eye, but even if he’d been able to see them, there was little he could do. 

“You’re an idiot, Dean Winchester.” Michael’s lip curled. “That Shambler was meant to kill _both _of you. As it failed, I’ll do the job myself… how such a fool as you managed to gain the favor of the Queen, I simply cannot comprehend.”

Dean choked on air, something he couldn’t see squeezing the oxygen from his chest and starting a fire in his lungs. Distantly, Dean heard noises; crashing, shouting—louder than whatever had been going on in the attic. But it was hard to concentrate, struggling and gasping, his tongue lolling out as Michael raised his hand, forming a fist as he raised Dean up from the floor to hover high near the ceiling.

Michael thrummed with magic; his eyes were gold with power and rage. “You! A titleless deviant, implicated my own _brother, _a man of far better blood than you should even _stand near…_and what did you get in return? A jail cell? A whipping? No!” 

He was screaming by then, and the edges of Dean’s vision were going black and fuzzy.

“You were handed a title, on a platter! A reward of underserved riches! The good word of Victoria herself!”

_You’re insane, _Dean thought, swimming in air as his feet scrambled for hold on a floor that was far below. 

Flat against the ceiling, Dean writhed and panicked, helpless.

“That creature should have disposed of my bastard little brother and you in one fell swoop, leaving the world a better place!”

The flames behind Michael flared, and Dean was aware of the office door being pounded, rammed even—voices, something vaguely familiar pulling at his breath-starved mind. That was… it was…

Dean didn’t know. His vision failed to black as the office door crashed in.

There was a scream of rage and a gunshot. Then another and another.

Sightless and immobile, Dean fell.


	7. The City of Unnumbered Crimes

_Love is courage. Without love, we cannot triumph over evil. – Ryuho Okawa_

Vision slowly returned to Dean in the form of gray clouds scudding erratically across his view and tiny flashes, like fireflies or distant stars, sparking yellow against the backdrop of his closed eyelids. He drew in a breath that sounded far too loud to his ears—heaving, the sound of someone to whom oxygen had become eternally precious. 

He was on the floor, he registered, and around him chaos reigned.

Pushing up against a plush red carpet littered with ash, Dean blinked until he could take everything in. He knelt before the fireplace, muscles trembling, as his saviors fought his battle.

Castiel and Charlie, of all the people in the world, had Lord Michael at the end of their guns, the dripping wound in his stomach showing that they hadn’t shied from using them. There were other wounds, too—on his hands, and his temple; a fight Dean had entirely missed, unconscious. Dean briefly wondered where Castiel had obtained a Lettersman’s flintlock, before registering that—of course—it likely belonged to Charlie. _She could be fired for letting him use that, _he registered vaguely, the special bullets that it shot—a mix of silver and iron, charmed with magic suppressants—not ever issued to the general populace.

The arm that Castiel raised at his older brother was steady. His eyes flickered back and forth between Dean on the floor and Michael at the end of the barrel, unaffected by the latter’s howls of frustration.

Charlie and Castiel were holding Michael there, not moving forward to kill or arrest, just keeping him in place. Charlie held her gun in one hand, and her other palm sparkled with a beautiful emerald green. The color enchanted Dean—and he suddenly recalled, through his fog, the green pointed star that adorned her Men of Letters uniform. Why had he never registered that she was a sorceress?

_You were too damn distracted by Castiel’s big blue eyes the whole time, _he chastised himself. 

Those eyes were resting on him now, wide and concerned.

“Dean? Are you alright?” Castiel asked, before flicking his eyes back to his brother, his frown deepening, but his gun never wavering.

“Fine,” Dean managed, practically hissing to force sound through his battered throat. Instead of speech, he tried a smile; hoping it would convey his gratitude where his words could not.

Dean wondered why Castiel and Charlie were holding the bleeding sorcerer in place rather than finishing him off—it was dangerous, even if one of their bullets seemed to have put his right hand firmly out of business. A calculated shot. Dean wondered whose it was.

His thoughts were cut off by a sea of noise from the hallway—running boots, shouted commands. And then the doorway was full—exceedingly so, as Sam practically had to duck to enter. The man that followed, however, leading the troop of Lettersman recruits, was a lot shorter.

“Lord Michael De Angelis,” Gabriel said as he entered the room, drawing to a halt. There was something sad and broken in his voice, Dean noted, but he didn’t waver. “I hereby charge you with the attempted murder of Castiel Novak, of Brighton, and Lord Dean Winchester of Mayfair. You need not speak, but any words you—"

“It’s my word against _his!_” Elder Michael hissed, glaring at Dean, a trickle of blood dripping down the side of his face from the cut at his temple. “Who do you think any judge in the land will believe?” 

There was a pause as Michael’s question settled around them, and he made to move; quickly pulled back into place by a small zap from Charlie’s waiting palm. As if on cue, before anyone else could speak, there was a _thud _from upstairs.

“Gabe,” Dean choked out, his body too agonized for worries about name or title. “Upstairs.”

Confusion passed over the short, golden-haired lord’s eyes—a soft honey-bourbon in color, nothing like the rest of his family—before clarity shot through them. He turned, calling back to two of the recruits filling the doorway, their guns all trained on Lord Michael.

“Balth, Gad—Go.”

A solidly-built brunet and a lithe blond man peeled away from the group, dashing out into the hall. Their feet could be heard crashing up the stairs in the entrance and on up, set to discover who or what was captive above. The edges of Dean’s vision were fuzzing again, and Castiel and Charlie were both looking at him in concern.

“Dean, stay with us—keep your eyes open,” Castiel begged, enough worry in his voice to drive Gabriel forward.

The younger lord raised his own gun—silver, unlike the regular issue—and nodded his head to the side, indicating that Castiel should stand down and go to Dean. “Go, get Lord Winchester out of here, brother,” he said, the last tagged on almost uncertainly to his command.

Dean noticed Castiel’s small smile at the term, but everything else was lost to him as the comforting darkness pulled him back. 

Dean dreamed of strong arms. For many days and nights, though he knew of neither, that was all there was. 

When he woke, he recognized the interior of the Men of Letters’ own infirmary on Berkeley Square, only a couple of doors down from the headquarters itself. He’d been there many times in his life to have bullet wounds fixed, knife slashes stitched, and endless concussions checked out, so the pale beige walls and crisp white bedding were no surprise to him. The gentleman sitting in the seat beside his bed, however, was somewhat unexpected.

“Lord Gabriel?” Dean managed, speaking around a wad of cotton and a pipe that occupied his throat, at least as best he could. 

“Dean,” Gabriel said in return, immediately putting aside the book he’d been reading. “You’re awake! Don’t speak. At least not until I’ve got the nurse in here. Ms. Alexandra will be most displeased with us all if I let you start wagging your tongue without her say so.” 

The young, but strict and ineffably talented healer that oversaw the infirmary was the stuff of legend. A sorceress who wanted only to heal, she had kept many of Dean’s colleagues alive in situations where modern medicine had not managed.

Gabriel reached across to pick up the brass bell at Dean’s bedside, ringing it firmly. “I’m sure she’ll only be a moment,” he said.

He was right; Ms. Alexandra—Alex, as Dean remembered her from the days when he’d been young enough to frequent dances in hopes of a wife (and found that she had absolutely no interest in filling that space)—bustled swiftly into the room, moving straight up to the edge of the bed.

“You’re awake, Dean! Very good. We were concerned for a while, there.”

Not daring to speak until he was given explicit permission, Dean raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ll let Lord Gabriel here explain everything,” she said, interpreting him correctly. “But you gave us quite the scare. I’ve been kicking upset fans out of your room all week, you know. Some were quite flustered that the Red Hand was out of commission.”

Gabriel gave an inelegant snort.

Alex looked askance at him as she carefully eased the stiff pipe from Dean’s mouth. “I’m sure Lord Gabriel will tell you all about that, too,” she added, smirking quietly.

Dean gagged and gripped the bedsheets hard, the small procedure being far from comfortable. But once she was done, he felt remarkably better, able to flex his jaw and move his tongue.

“How is that?” Alex asked, her concern evident. “Can you try a few words for me, Dean?”

“Sure,” he croaked. “What does a man have to do to get a drink?”

Alex smiled. “I’m sure that would be fine. I recommend warm water, with some honey. It’ll help soothe the ache you’ll no doubt have for the next several days. I’ll fetch you some—I suppose, in the meantime, Lord Gabriel can answer your questions.”

As she scurried from the room, taking the pipe and cotton dressings with her, attached to some kind of brass machine, Dean turned to look at Gabriel. “Hello, old friend,” he greeted him, warm, if croaky.

“Glad to hear your voice, old bean,” Gabriel said with a wink, reaching across to slap gently at Dean’s shoulder. “You know I’m not one given to excessive emotion, but you definitely had me worried.”

Dean waved a hand, managing a smile. “You should have known better. I’m hard to kill.”

Gabriel gave a little grin, seeming to agree. “I suppose you’d like some information, then. Some answers.”

Dean nodded slowly, his neck stiff and his throat sorer than he’d ever felt it. “How did you know to come to Angelis Hall?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a tale,” Gabriel began, resting back into the guest seat and crossing his ankle up onto his knee, adjusting his brown suit as if he was settling in for a while. “You know, I believe, that I had been talking to your brother, as I’d overheard my own older brothers discussing an upcoming opening in our ranks.”

Dean decided to keep quiet as much as he could, so he merely nodded.

“That position, I now realize, was yours. I’d had suspicions for some time that Michael was up to no good… but who would listen to the tricky younger brother, over Elder Michael? Even I don’t think I’m that reliable. So, I kept my mouth shut.”

“Suspicions?” Dean croaked.

“About my father’s sudden illness and disappearance, for one. I’m not fool enough that I didn’t make the connection in timing between his apparent ill health and his intentions to change his will to include Castiel. Michael simply wouldn’t have it, I believe, that greedy old stickler.”

Dean nodded. That wasn’t news to him, it was exactly as Charlie and Castiel had suspected themselves. 

“You had not long left Brighton, I think, when Sam came running into my office,” Gabriel continued. “He told me that Rowena McLeod had identified the creature you were hunting as a Shambler, a spirit from the Void. I know nothing about such Eldritch horrors, but out of anyone on this Earth, you know I trust your brother. He said that he and Rowena had discovered that the beasts could be summoned like assassins; supernatural hunters to be set on foes, like hit men.”

Dean blinked slowly. That part, at least, was certainly new to him.

“Rowena was able to call down to the Chapterhouse in Brighton—she spoke to some young spark in the laboratory, I believe—”

“Kevin,” Dean said with a grin. 

“—whoever,” Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “But she instructed him and Ms. Bradbury in a spell that would reveal the summoner of the beast and who it was summoned to kill. And it wasn’t just Castiel.”

Dean made a small noise of affirmation. That Michael intended to kill him was no news, given how his throat was feeling.

“My little brother,” Gabriel continued calmly, an unchecked smirk settling across his lips, “near lost his mind when they found out. If it isn’t inappropriate to say—which it probably is, but who gives a damn—the poor man reacted like he’d lost the love of his life. Do you know he and Ms. Bradbury took off in the Chapter’s dirigible, straight for London, without even asking cousin Joshua? They stole it, technically speaking.”

“Cas… Cas stole a dirigible?” Dean croaked.

“Yes,” Gabriel smirked. “Though I conveniently forgot about that part, and perhaps you should too. He’s not a good driver, it turns out, and we wouldn’t want to draw attention to the condition it was eventually returned in.”

Dean started to chuckle but cut himself off immediately at the pain it caused. 

Gabriel gave him a sympathetic wince, then picked back up with his story. 

“Sam and I chased all over London for you, just missing you at every turn—the train station, your home, the Chapterhouse. Castiel and Charlie made it to you just before we did—luckily, even against my brother, I have enough sway that I could bring a few men with me.”

“I recall that part,” Dean said. “Vaguely, at least.”

“Only vaguely?” Gabriel smirked. “What a shame. You missed my half-brother carrying you from the room like a big damned hero, then, pausing only to shoot Michael in the foot out of pure spite.”

“He _what?” _Dean grabbed at his throat, instantly realizing his mistake in yelling.

Gabriel grinned wolfishly. “What? Which part is the problem—the fact that my brother has some pent-up rage at the man who tried to kill you both, or that he made you the damsel of the piece?”

Dean gave him a reproachful glare, to which Gabriel just threw his head back and laughed.

They were interrupted by Ms. Alexandra’s return with a cup of warm water and honey to soothe Dean’s throat. He took the drink gratefully, wincing as he pushed his stiff body up in bed to receive it. 

“How long have I been asleep?” Dean half-whispered, taking a cautious sip. 

“Six days,” Ms. Alexandra responded regretfully. “You’d have woken sooner, but you’d have been in so much pain, I decided to keep you out a little longer while your esophagus healed.”

Given the pain he was in even then, Dean decided he was grateful and nodded his thanks. 

“You should know, though,” she said carefully, “that I recommend rest for the foreseeable future. I’m sure you’ll feel well in a day or two. But your body went through a lot; magic can have effects beyond the obvious. It will be my recommendation to your superiors that you are to be signed off on leave.”

Dean opened his mouth, not sure how to respond, before a simpler question crossed his mind. “My superiors?” he said, raising his eyebrow at Gabriel, hoping his query was evident without further explanation. 

“Ahh, yes, well”—Gabriel sat back up straight, having slumped back in the chair—“we need to talk about that.”

Ms. Alexandra seemed to sense that she wasn’t required for that conversation, so she bobbed a small curtsey and hurried out of the door.

Dean turned a questioning look straight back at Gabriel.

“The first thing you should know is that my father is alive and hearty, thanks to you, and he will be resuming control of the Men of Letters immediately.”

“Me?”

Gabriel nodded, and his smile was genuine, grateful, and unguarded. “I have to thank you for that more than anything, on a personal level. My three brothers butted heads with my father more often than not. They were my mother’s children, whereas—luckily for me, perhaps—she never showed much interest in my upbringing, as you know. I was the closest to my father, out of us all, and I had missed him terribly. So, thank you.”

“So, Michael…” Dean near whispered, remembering the mystery captive at Angelis Hall. 

“Indeed. A ruse, the whole thing, concocted by Michael after Mother died so that he would be able to get Lord Charles out of the way and take control of the Men of Letters. He wanted a return to earlier values, not to mention control of the money. Castiel, I believe, was a spanner in the works, so he banned him from London and cut all the funding Father once gave to his studio.”

“So Castiel did nothing, then,” Dean said, between sips of his honey tisane. “It was nothing but Michael’s greed that exiled him.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “For now, we thought it best that Castiel return to Brighton—he has his own affairs to attend to. Sammy has been keeping him informed of your condition by the hour. He seemed very concerned for you—I’ll make sure he’s aware of your recovery as soon as possible.”

Dean nodded gratefully.

“Of course,” Gabriel added nonchalantly, “once my father was brought up to speed on everything Michael did, he set about making amends, wherever he could. So, to be clear, Castiel is now most welcome in London, should he choose to be here. If that matters to you.”

Dean nodded slowly, looking down at the porcelain cup in his hands, steam curling from it. He kept his gaze on the surface of the honeyed water. He wasn’t sure how much to say, or what to ask, though he had many thoughts that centered around Castiel.

At his silence, Gabriel cleared his throat uncertainly and seemed to decide to change the subject. 

“You have given so much to the Men of Letters, Dean. You are one of the best of us, and rightly recognized for it. But I’m afraid I have one more thing to ask of you before this particular case will be closed.”

Dean tilted his head in question, saving his voice.

“Michael will be tried within the week.” Gabriel’s face was taut and showed no trace of his usual jovial humor. “If you find yourself well enough, I would ask that you give a statement during the trial—we have plenty of evidence, but your name and your own words will add much more weight.”

“Of course.” Dean nodded. He was growing tired, just talking wearing him down quickly in his weakened state. “Gabriel,” he said, “I appreciate you being here when I awoke to explain all of this—but I wonder if you would be able to send my brother, now, and let everyone know I’m awake.”

Gabriel nodded, taking Dean’s hint and rising from the high-backed seat he had occupied beside the bed. “Of course. There will be more to discuss, over the coming days—not least your position in the Men of Letters now that my father has returned, and both Michael and Lucien are gone.”

Dean blinked slowly. “Well, I—I have a lot to think about, and some of it I find I would like to discuss with my brother. But of course, you can visit any time, Lord Gabriel.”

Stepping toward the door, Gabriel took his tall hat from the table at the end of the bed and slipped it on, inclining his head with the motion. “I’ll fetch him from the Library myself, before I return home in the car. He will be delighted that you are awake.”

Sam was just as happy to see Dean awake as Gabriel had predicted, throwing propriety aside to dive into a tight, brotherly hug as soon as he arrived.

“Alright, alright,” rumbled Dean throatily. He sounded like he’d been deep in a tobacco pipe and it showed no sign of abating anytime soon. “Don’t crush the invalid.”

“Oh, going to be milking it, are you?” Sam asked with a wide grin.

“Rather not, honestly,” Dean admitted, pushing himself to sit up further in the infirmary bed. “If you can persuade Ms. Alex to let me go, I have places I’d rather be.”

“Oh?” asked Sam, settling himself into the seat that Lord Gabriel had occupied previously. “That eager to get back to work?”

Dean looked down to the simple white sheets that covered him to his chest, mostly concealing the infirmary-issued white nightshirt that he was wearing. He picked at the fabric with his forefinger and thumb, trying to gain some clarity in the swirling thoughts in his mind. 

“Perhaps not,” he whispered.

Sam tilted his head forward, looking down so as to try and catch his brother’s eyes. “Dean?”

Dean took a deep breath. “You’d… you’d be alright here, wouldn’t you? If I—I mean, you’re not a kid anymore, you don’t _need…_”

He trailed off, focused on the blanket. When he dared look back up, his brother was regarding him with a huge, beaming smile.

“You want to go to Brighton, don’t you?” Sam asked, lit up with happiness on his brother’s behalf.

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. If he’ll have me.”

Sam crushed Dean in another hug, and Dean didn’t complain at how long it lasted. 

Once he’d brought it up with Sam, Dean found it much easier to let go of London than he’d ever have expected. What was there for him, really, in that city of unnumbered crimes? Old memories, failed conquests, months of dodging Michael’s supporters in the street? No. He knew better, and he hoped to have better, if he could make himself worthy of it. 

Dean had money; Queen Victoria had made sure of that, when he had helped her out with the very personal problem that Lord Lucien De Angelis had schemed to have her saddled with. He’d never been one to base value on coin alone, but he knew how wealth could grease the wheels of life. He may never be used to it, but he was grateful for it; he could support his brother, no matter what career Sam chose, and he’d have the money to support his own family, even if he should never work another day.

But that wasn’t how Dean ticked, as a man. He’d go mad, he knew, if he just sat in parlors and played poker for the rest of his life, letting some secretary handle his affairs. So, there were preparations to be made, plans to work out.

Dean was nervous. Three weeks, it had taken, to get everything in order. The trial had been quick, Michael put in the crown jail at the insistence of his own brothers—even crotchety Raphael agreeing that “_it just wasn’t done” _and that Michael had brought shame to them all. But there was still the matter of the leadership of the Letters to resolve, and Dean had packing to do and enquiries to make. 

Only Sam knew every piece of his plotting and endeavored to help wherever he could, far more eager than Dean had expected. It warmed his heart, knowing that Sam only valued his happiness. As Dean had always expected, with Elder Michael gone, Lord Gabriel nominated Sam for a place among the Letters without hesitation. The old rules, he said, about younger brothers and their eligibility to join had always been poppycock—he himself was a younger brother, after all, and he was allowed to lead. So why one rule for the landed, and one rule for everyone else?

Lord Charles had agreed in short order, and Sam would be mentoring with Lord Gabriel himself for the next year. Dean was proud.

Sam mocked Dean in jest, calling him the Queen’s favorite, but there was at least some truth in it—and so when Dean sent a letter of enquiry to the crown secretary asking some particular questions about the new decency laws that had been in effect since the year before, he wasn’t terribly surprised to find a personal response in his hand within two days. 

It was the last piece to his puzzle, and he held it tight in hand as he boarded the train to Brighton.

His personal effects—his most precious items that he could not lose, like that letter and his prints from Castiel—he took on the train with him, held in a small leather case that he didn’t let out of his sight. The rest of his belongings were packed in trunks, travelling slower, by post.

As the steam engine rumbled its way out of the station close to Berkeley Square, Dean unfolded his letters and read them over and over, trying to settle his nerves.

He arrived at the station in Brighton late in the evening and knew he should wait, knew that propriety said that calling unannounced on someone so late in the day was to be deeply frowned upon. But he couldn’t bring himself to stay, forgoing the Chapterhouse to head straight to the Novak Studio.

Trepidation knotted his stomach as he knocked.

The answer was a long time coming, late as it was, and it was with a notable scowl that Mrs. Harvelle opened the door—but it melted at the sight of Dean, replaced with a relieved, welcoming smile.

“You came,” she said simply, no formal introduction. “You really came back.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Dean said honestly. “But I had affairs to put in order.”

“So, not a quick stop by, then?” Mrs. Harvelle asked, raising an eyebrow as she stepped aside to admit Dean into the familiar hallway that led into the gallery.

“That part isn’t just up to me,” Dean admitted with a small smile, unable to help himself giving the housekeeper a hopeful wink.

She grinned and must have approved of something in his demeanor, as she raised a hand to squeeze his shoulder, as if their difference in station was nothing. “It’s good to see you again, Dean,” she said, full of warmth. “For my part, I certainly hope to see a lot more of you.”

“Ellen?” came a deep voice from down the hallway, echoing around the stairwell. “Who is it?”

“I’ll announce ‘em when they’re ready!” the housekeeper yelled in the direction of the stairs.

Dean stifled a chuckle. “At least he didn’t open the door himself,” he pointed out.

Mrs. Harvelle sighed. “Aye, that’s true. He’s been even more of a handful since you left, mooning around like—well, that’s none of my business. I hope for the sake of my nerves that you can tame him some. Go on now; he’s in the parlor.”

Dean laughed openly, walking on into the studio and toward the stairs that led to the apartments above. 

“I’ll make myself scarce,” Mrs. Harvelle whispered as she opened the parlor door, her words for Dean only. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispered in return.

The fireplace was low in the parlor, the damp chill finally leaving the air in favor of an attempt at spring. Castiel sat in front of it, his feet up on a footstool, slumped down most ungentleman-like in the armchair with a pile of prints on his stomach. He held them up one at a time, squinting at them through a magnifying lens. Knowing what a perfectionist Castiel was, Dean thought that he was probably critiquing his own work. Having entered on silent feet, Dean merely watched for a moment, allowing his eyes their fill of Castiel’s dark hair, soft and uncombed, and his socked feet crossed at the ankle.

Then, with a deep breath, Dean bravely cleared his throat.

Castiel’s eyes widened as his head turned; he sat up immediately, placing his feet to the floor, the prints scattering from the front of his vest where they’d rested and falling to the carpet—which he ignored, dropping the magnifying lens onto the small table at the arm of the chair with a clatter.

“Dean?” he breathed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Dean had all kinds of plans, speeches and witty words, but every one of them failed him. “Cas,” was all he managed, and a warm smile as he approached.

“You—they told me you were well, but I didn’t hear from you…” Castiel said, taking a step toward Dean. His eyes darted around Dean’s face, though what he was hoping or looking to see Dean wasn’t wholly certain.

“Yes—I made plans to come to Brighton as soon as I could, you see,” Dean admitted quietly. “I just had some affairs to neaten up.” 

“To come to Brighton,” Castiel echoed softly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face.

“Yes,” Dean said. “Your father and your brother Gabriel are making big changes at the Men of Letters in London, and I asked to be included in them.”

Castiel’s brow gave a tiny crease of confusion, but he didn’t interrupt.

Dean held out his arms to each side, presenting himself with a somewhat uncharacteristic shyness. “You’re looking at the newest Senior Agent for the South East Chapter. Lord Joshua is being moved to the city.”

Castiel’s blink was abrupt. “But—that’s a demotion for you, correct? What is the Red Hand of London doing slumming it in the field in Brighton?”

Taking a deep breath, Dean took a step closer to Castiel, until he stood before him. “Hopefully, I’m prioritizing. Compromising, you could say. I’ll consult, more than anything.”

He didn’t interrupt, but Castiel’s head tilted to the side in an adorable expression of puzzlement that Dean couldn’t help but smile at.

“I want to work somewhere,” Dean said, as calmly as he could, “where I can come home to you, every night. If you’ll let me. Being the Red Hand was a fine life for a young buck, Cas, but that isn’t what I want, not anymore. I want you.”

Castiel was frozen, and Dean had a moment where he wondered if he’d somehow managed to wildly misjudge everything. 

“Me?” Castiel eventually said, somehow sounding both hopeful and heart-crushingly afraid all at once. 

Dean sucked in a deep breath, his eyes dropping self-consciously down to the carpet. “Well, I—I believe that you said you were in love with me. And if that’s still true, then…”

“Then?” Castiel asked, stepping up, closing the gap, suddenly close enough that Dean was forced to look back up. The same crackling tension that Dean had always felt between them developed almost instantly with his proximity, and Dean slowly exhaled, until Castiel’s thumb came to cautiously draw Dean’s chin up the last inch that caused their eyes to meet. “Then, Dean?”

“Then,” Dean leaned in a fraction further, resting his forehead to Castiel’s. “I want to tell you that I have fallen in turn, and very, very happily so.”

Castiel’s grin was infectious, and Dean felt his cheeks bunching up in a mirror of Castiel’s overwhelmed expression.

“I love you, Dean,” he breathed out, soft but confident.

“And I love you, Cas,” Dean returned just as gently. 

Their lips met and Dean was swept away in Castiel’s currents, but this time he never intended to be saved from the riptide; he wanted to drown in blue storms for the rest of his life. They kissed passionately, mouths open, panting softly. 

Dean was giddy, and the moment they pulled back for air, he couldn’t help but take Castiel into a tight squeeze, a crushing hug, lifting him clear of the floor. Castiel laughed in protest, shoving playfully at Dean’s chest the moment his feet were back on the ground. 

“Is that payback for carrying you out of Angelis Hall?” Castiel joked, moving in to kiss Dean again, seemingly not caring for an answer.

But Dean fully intended to give him one regardless, and so when they took another breath, he cupped Castiel’s face in his hands, gentle and reverent. “You came for me, Cas. You saved my life, you know.” 

Dean loved that gentle flush that sometimes hid beneath Castiel’s bravado, the one that it felt like only he got to see.

“It was nothing, Dean,” Castiel dismissed, busying his gaze by watching his fingers trail across Dean’s jaw. “You saved me, after all.”

“So you weren’t hoping that I’d swoon into your arms if you rescued me?” Dean teased.

“Well, perhaps a little,” Castiel admitted. “I had confessed my feelings to you in a rather embarrassing manner. I had to reclaim my dignity somehow.”

Dean laughed, wrapping his arms tight around Castiel and pressing his chuckles into the other man’s neck. “Oh Cas,” he murmured affectionately into his skin. “Did you not know that I had been in love with you the whole time? That I thought I had nothing to offer you? That I simply wasn’t worthy of a man of your talents and caliber?”

“I’m a bastard, a nothing,” Castiel responded, laughing and shaking his head. “You fool,” he pressed tenderly into Dean’s cheek.

Dean drew back just the barest inch, cupping Castiel’s cheek and drawing them almost together again, so that he drowned in his eyes. “How about, instead of being a bastard De Angelis, you become a Winchester?”

He felt Castiel’s breath hitch against his chest. 

“Are you…” Castiel whispered.

“Marry me, Cas,” Dean whispered right back, face to face, embraced in the middle of the parlor. 

Castiel still seemed dazed. “You don’t just want… I mean, you actually want to…” Pink cheeked and flustered, Castiel was beaming. “I would understand, given that we are both men, if you wished for us to remain unwed, and just—"

“No, Cas. What part of ‘I love you’ wasn’t clear?” Dean pressed his lips to Castiel’s nose, smiling more shyly as he admitted, “I even wrote to Queen Victoria herself, as it wasn’t clear under her new laws exactly what your title would be, and—”

The laughter was unexpected.

“You wrote to the Queen about marrying me?” Castiel bit his lip, still grinning even as he managed to speak.

Dean felt his neck heat. “Well… yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“Until a more common title comes into use, you would simply be the Honorable Sir Castiel Winchester. It’s no De Angelis, I know, but—” 

“It’s perfect, Dean. Yes.”

Dean felt everything around him pause. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, nodding, his countenance sparkling. “I will marry you. Now, as my newly betrothed….” He paused long enough to pull Dean into a searing, deep kiss. “…let me take you to bed.”


End file.
